


A Promise

by blossoming_art



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Romance, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28959903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blossoming_art/pseuds/blossoming_art
Summary: A promise made, a promise broken and a promise kept. Set in an AU where Harry and Severus are a thing (but secretly), Voldemort refuses to die (and is MEAN), and Albus Dumbledore is still alive (I have no more parentheses thoughts, IDK).Written post-DH as a coping mechanism for all my feelings following the EWE - you've been warned!
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 22
Kudos: 46





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! Welcome to my piece of fanfiction. Legally, I own nothing and JKR is the genius behind all characters (with the exception of a few made up minor characters of my own); as a fledgling writer, I just get to play in her sandbox.
> 
> I started writing this piece over 10 years ago and while I've written other fics in between, this one is the one I always come back to when a brainwave hits me. I have about 11 chapters written and plan to finish at approximately 15 chapters overall. I know how I want it to end, it's just being a stubborn b*tch, TBH.
> 
> I'm new to AO3 only in getting a profile; I've been a lurking guest for longer than I care to admit :) Please note that this is a repost from FF.net and while there might be a few spelling/grammar updates from that version, they'll be very much the same.
> 
> And with all that out of the way, please read on to view the prologue of our tale. Enjoy!

“Promise me you’ll come back.”

The words that had seemed stuck in his throat only moments ago had finally clawed their way up and out of his mouth. The words that he had never allowed himself to utter before tonight. The words that spelled disaster in his mind as soon as he said them. Because he could not fear for this man’s return. If he showed any such weakness — a fool’s weakness, for certain — and all of his fears came true; it would kill him.

* * *

Severus had been about to walk out of their room for the night, donning a cloak as dark as night and grasping a bone-white mask in his hands. At the soft words spoken to his back, he halted. The young man who had made his life such a joy over the last three years had called him back, like a siren calling to the damned. And wasn’t that irony for you? Because Harry was his siren and Severus was damned; had been damned since the day he was born. Been damned the day his father murdered his mother in cold blood. Damned the day he let Tom Riddle scorch his brand into Severus’s delicate forearm. And damned all over again when Harry had kissed him.

Ah, that first, most forbidden of pleasures that they had shared. Forbidden because they could not be involved with one another. Harry was the poster child of the resistance, the unofficial leader of the free world; while Severus was a Death Eater, cruel and most reviled amongst the Wizarding World’s populace. They were two different people from two different worlds: a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, an Auror and a Death Eater, light and dark, yin and yang. They couldn’t be more opposite even if they had tried. And yet...

* * *

“Promise me, Severus.”

The words were less solid this time. Harry’s emotions were all over the place and he felt as though he could fly apart at any moment. Because this couldn’t be happening. Not so soon. It hadn’t been more than three hours since the last summons from Voldemort. Severus had the slight nerve damage to prove it. What could the monster possibly want now?

It had always been a calculated risk going out day after day, pretending to be Voldemort’s good little lap dog. But now, Harry had an increased feeling of anxiety. It could have been the fact that Harry was usually not present when Severus was summoned, but something in his gut told him this was not so.

* * *

“I promise.”

The words he should not say came unbidden to his lips. The two words that he had told himself years ago never to utter again. Promises could be broken. Promises were for sentimental fools. But wasn’t that what he had become? Was he not the very definition of a fool? Severus had changed, and for the better, all thanks to the young man whose eyes were boring into his at the moment. He could not show those changes to the outside world, of course, but when he was alone, he permitted himself the thoughts he would not have had without Harry. _Without Harry_.

Those words rang like a tolling bell in his head, again and again, over and over. The thought of being without the person who was responsible for the man Severus had become made his throat close up and he gazed at Harry with such intensity that it scared him. Harry, who had become such a permanent fixture in his life. Harry, who made him want to be a better man. Harry, Harry, _Harry_. His gaze scorched what it touched, and what it was touching was Harry. It had always been Harry, even when they were fighting over Order plans or sniping at each other in front of their peers.

As if to remind him of his duties, his Mark throbbed heavily for a moment before subsiding into a dull ache once more. It served to give Severus the push out the door he needed, and with a last heavy glance, he was gone.


	2. A Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One note about the timeline of this story. Voldemort has been back for 15 years and Harry has been an Auror since he graduated Hogwarts. They just haven't managed to kill each other yet.
> 
> A quick reminder that I own nothing, I just like to put these characters that the lovely JKR created into different scenarios. And without further ado...

Severus Snape is dead. The four words that he had always dreaded hearing.

The young Auror who had answered his query into what was going on had long since slipped away to control the crowd. Harry had been on his way into work, having Apparated into the Ministry’s atrium to find a large crowd gathered around the fountain of magical brethren. When the young man in his second year of apprenticeship to the Auror’s program had passed him by, he had taken the opportunity to ask what was going on.

Severus Snape is dead.

When Harry had finally managed to make his feet move, it was only to take him closer to the edge of the crowd, where he assumed the body was found. The _body_. Sweet _Merlin_. Harry choked on his breath for a moment, his steps faltering briefly, but he somehow managed to continue his journey towards the fountain. Somehow, he found the will to continue towards the moment that would forever change his life. Because there was no doubt in Harry’s mind that his life would be irrevocably altered once he saw the truth for his own eyes. Once he saw the evidence for himself, saw that he had not heard incorrectly, that he was not having a nightmare, that this was _real_.

Because this could not be real. This could not be happening. Harry had only parted from him three hours ago. They had made love four hours ago. And five hours ago. And six hours ago. They had kissed for the first time in weeks six hours and seven minutes ago. They had kissed like they’d been drowning and were coming up for fresh air at last, after so long being apart. They had kissed like they were coming home.

They had ripped each other’s clothes off six hours and four minutes before, so eager to see one another that they’d completely forgotten the spells that could have helped them avoid the carnage. Five hours and forty-six minutes prior, they had collapsed in an exhausted heap, but hadn’t gone to sleep because they’d been too in wonder. In wonder of each other. They’d stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed an eternity, stroking one another’s faces, trying to memorize the features that had been denied them for so long. Four and a half hours before this moment, they had talked to each other in quiet whispers, drawing out soft laughter and talking about the future, about their dreams, about their hopes. Three hours and fifteen minutes previous, after a gloriously slow round of love-making, they had finally conceded defeat and cuddled up in their haven for the night—a rented bed in a seedy, downtown London, Muggle hotel. And three hours ago, the Dark Mark had burned black and torn them apart once more. Now, here Harry was, standing at the edge of a precipice.

Severus Snape is dead. Severus Snape is dead. Severus Snape is dead. Severus...oh _Merlin_.

The words kept repeating themselves, over and over, refusing to leave him alone. Between the ringing in his ears, though, his mind was screaming at him to wake up. Please, _God_ Harry, please just wake up, it’s just a dream, a twisted nightmare, and all you have to do is wake up. Wake _up_. _Wake up_. But there was no relief for Harry. He did not wake up, no matter how much he willed himself to do so. Because this _was_ real. This _was_ happening. This was...

“Sir! Auror Potter!”

A lone voice cutting through the buzzing in his head. When Harry managed to focus his eyes, he realized he had made it all the way to the front of the crowd, but had stopped before the magical tape the Auror department had set up. It was the young Auror from before, but his name was eluding Harry at the moment. Pearson...Pulcer...no, Parker...Harry couldn’t remember, and frankly, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Because his world was crumbling around him. His perfect, _stupid_ , naive world.

“What is it?”

Harry only managed to rasp the words out after several seconds of clearing his throat carefully. Pluto—or whatever his name was—gave Harry a look that clearly showed the confusion he felt from Harry’s reaction, but persisted nonetheless.

“Sir, what would you like to do?” And when Harry looked at him blankly, “About the crowd, sir. There are rather a lot of people here and it’s slowing the traffic in and out of the atrium.”

Harry looked around as if only just noticing the people surrounding him. And if he was honest with himself, he was taking a first look at the people gathered to watch the scene unfold. Never before had a body been dumped in the Ministry’s hallowed halls and so it was with great interest that they all milled around to see just who had warranted the honour. Harry felt sick. Swallowing back the bile rising in his throat, Harry addressed the young man before he lost the little contents left in his stomach all over the other man’s shoes.

“Get them out of here. _Now_.”

Again, Paisley gave him an odd look, but let it go in favour of letting the other junior apprentices know what was expected of them. Harry barely heard the magically-enhanced voice begin its announcement before the buzzing in his head engulfed him all over again.

Severus Snape is dead.

Harry stayed where he was, staring at the back of a Ministry employee who was cataloguing the details of the crime in a detached voice. Male, Caucasian, early 50’s, black hair, black eyes...the list went on and on. Harry knew what he would see when the man finally moved out of his way. He knew that there would be a body, that it would likely be mangled or disfigured in some way. Although there was no blood on the atrium floor, that only meant that the Ministry worker had removed the excess blood to get a better look at the wounds inflicted.

Harry had to take a juddering breath in when the wizard finally moved aside. He had been prepared to see blood, cuts, mangled flesh, an unrecognizable corpse. What he had not been prepared to see was a practically pristine-looking body, the only evidence of hurt being the red bruising consistent with excessive use of the Cruciatus curse. Even that had been kept to a minimum, the only marks left being around the abdomen and chest. He certainly had not been prepared to see the eyes that he so loved open and staring straight at him. The body had been posed so that the head lolled to the side, so that Harry was looking directly into the eyes that had so short a time ago been gazing at him with tenderness. Now they were cold, back to the eyes of the Professor that Harry had known throughout his school days.

Severus Snape is dead. Severus Snape is dead. Severus Snape is dead. Severus...dead. Severus...oh _God_ , oh sweet _Merlin_ , _please no_.

Harry couldn’t breathe. Or he could, but his brain didn’t seem to be getting any oxygen, nor did his lungs. Because his brain wasn’t functioning beyond the ringing in his ears and his lungs were burning— _please_ —and his heart—oh _Gods_ his heart—was breaking. Now his whole chest burned and his eyes seemed to be feeling the effects as well; his vision was blurry, he couldn’t see anything but black spots and blurred colours. _Stop it_. Pull yourself together.

Suddenly, Harry could feel the rush of air into his lungs and he nearly collapsed in relief when he realized that he could still breathe, that the burn was fading, that his vision had cleared again. Focus. He needed to focus. If he didn’t, he could very well end up a puddle on the floor and then they’d be examining his body, just like they were Se— _no_. Harry had to stop thinking about it. If he didn’t, he was going to lose himself, and very quickly.

“Are you nearly done?”

Harry didn’t know where the words came from, or how he managed to force them out in so level a tone. _Focus_.

The Ministry worker looked up as though only just noticing that beyond himself and the Aurors, they were alone in the atrium — the apprentices had done their jobs well, ushering everyone off to work or back home.

“Yes, sir. I just need to make a few more notes and then I’ll be moving the poor sod’s body down to the morgue. Nasty way to go,” the wizard grimaced, shaking his head.

It was then that Harry finally noticed the words that had been carved into the foot of the fountain. They had been poorly done, probably in a rush so as to finish before Ministry workers arrived. Harry spared a thought as to who had dropped the package off, who had had the task of carving the letters into the gold plating. But he could not focus on this for long, lest he return to his state of burning.

_To the Ministry and most importantly Dumbledore: we send you your spy, the traitor amongst the Dark Lord’s ranks. Let this be a lesson to those who seek to deceive the Dark Lord._

It was painfully obvious to Harry that the words had been dictated to whomever had carved them, likely from Voldemort himself. They reeked of Voldemort’s arrogance.

Harry was distracted once more by the white sheet being brought up to cover the body’s nude form.

“Wait.”

That one word had come out much less solidly than the ones before it and perhaps it was for this reason that the Ministry wizard stopped pulling the sheet up over the body, halting at the waist. Harry stepped through the Auror tape, which was spelled to let anyone from the Auror’s department pass. Under the watchful eyes of the other wizard, Harry stepped up to the body. He was trembling now, very faintly, and his breathing was coming faster again. He took note of this and managed to calm his erratic breaths once more, but the trembling only intensified as a result. Something must have shown on his face because the next words came from the other wizard.

“I expect you knew the good Professor,” he said softly. Harry nodded slowly, taking in another gulp of air. “If it helps any, he went fairly quickly. He was only under the Cruciatus for an hour at the most, which is why there is such extensive damage to-”

“Stop!” whispered Harry frantically.

He could not hear this. He could not bear to hear how the man he had come to love so much had passed. He knew it already, knew that Severus’s death, no matter what the other wizard said, had been torturously slow. To be under the Cruciatus for that long...it would have been like the body ripping itself apart and putting itself back together, over and over and over and _over_...

Harry’s knees gave out. To the outside world, it looked as if he had wanted to kneel next to the dead body, but he knew better. He had no longer been able to stand, his knees had become complete and utter jelly. He knelt there for what seemed like forever, staring at the pale form sprawled on the atrium floor. Finally, tentatively, he brought his hand up to smooth the lank black hair away from the sallow face, tucking the stray strands behind a convenient ear. His hand then came to rest along the other man’s cheek, the cold of the other’s skin shocking him momentarily.

Severus Snape is dead.

It was that cold, hard truth repeating in his head that lead him to his next action. Harry moved to sit next to the body, and then laid down, grabbing the arm closest to him so that he could wrap it around his own shoulders. And then Harry laid his head down to rest on the mottled chest, despite the various gasps and exclamations that he could hear throughout the room. It was there, laying on that cold floor, with his head pillowed on that cold body that Harry tried to come to grips with what was happening.

Severus is dead. Severus is dead. No, but he couldn’t be. He promised he would come back. He promised he would come back to me. He _promised_. Promise, promise, promise, promise...

“Harry? I need you to come with me,” Kingsley Shacklebolt’s low voice asked of him.

“He promised me. He promised me. He promised. Oh God, what’s happened? This can’t be happening, no, no, no — _don’t touch me_!”

Harry’s shout of fury and agony ripped through the relatively silent atrium, halting all previous whispered conversations. He had heard some of what they had been saying. _Potter’s gay? — what the hell is going on — why is he so upset — I didn’t know ol’ Snape had it in him_! And then Kingsley had reached out to touch his shoulder and he had reacted as if the other man was tearing his flesh from bone. He went back to whispering denials as soon as Kingsley backed off, back to his almost calm analysis of how they had gotten to this point.

“I was with him three hours ago. We made love. Then his mark burned. He had to leave. He promised he would come back. He promised...”

* * *

As Harry’s mutterings took on a more frantic edge, Kingsley made a snap decision. He motioned one of the junior apprentices over – Patton – and tried to discreetly ask for what he wanted. Although it looked like Harry was back to being in his own world at the moment. His arm now thrown across Snape’s chest as if by holding him, he could make it all better again. Bloody hell. How had they kept it hidden? Because now Kingsley could see that Snape was wearing a chain around his neck, one that had not been visible before. On it, there was an old silver ring with the Potter crest emblazoned proudly across the front. _Merlin_ , Harry, I’m sorry.

“Yes, sir?” Patton asked, his eyes wandering to the scene in front of him with a severe shock.

“Eyes on me, son,” Kingsley ordered softly and the roving eyes came back to his own face. “I want you to go upstairs to the Department of Muggle Artefacts and tell Arthur Weasley that he is needed in the atrium. Then I want you to go to the Auror’s department and get them to call Ron Weasley back from his assignment. He will be in Hertfordshire, looking after a disturbance. In his stead, I want you to send Auror Tonks. She will be able to handle it. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now go. Quickly. And not a word to anyone else, is that understood?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll return shortly.”

With that task over with, all Kingsley could do was wait and watch in horrified fascination as Harry slowly fell apart before his eyes. Now, Harry had taken out his own chain from around his neck, bearing another ancient silver ring with the Prince family crest displayed. Kingsley hadn’t remembered seeing it before now, but he supposed that if Snape’s had been charmed for secrecy, then Harry’s had as well. It was likely that the charm had been broken now that people knew the truth about their relationship. _Bugger_. I have _got_ to fire-call Albus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hides behind the story tags* Stay with me, kiddos!


	3. A Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Harry Potter series or characters; they belong to the fabulous J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. I just like to create different scenarios within her world.
> 
> Additional disclaimer: I have used a smidgen of the immensely talented Shonda Rhimes's writing from Grey's Anatomy because it was an incredible scene and a tearjerker and I felt it fit this situation perfectly. I don't own any of her work, I'm just a huge admirer of her work and imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
> 
> With that out of the way, enjoy!

At Hogwarts castle, Albus Dumbledore had just ended his fire-call with Kingsley Shacklebolt. He did not see his surroundings; the overwhelming grief gripping his heart was too much to bear. The portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses were sombre and silent, knowing how much the old wizard had cared about Severus Snape.

Albus took a few minutes to collect himself, his face wet with tears and his body trembling with his anguish. He had wondered where Severus had gone. The wards of the castle had told him that his Potions Master had returned last night after his meeting with Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and so it had confused him that Severus hadn’t been in the castle this morning. The wards had not alerted him to the other man leaving, and so he had wondered where he could possibly be. Now he knew. Merlin, Severus, I’m sorry.

After he had indulged far too long in self-recrimination for his tastes, he wiped his face carefully. He knew that he would have to call an Order meeting for tonight, as they would have to strategize what this latest blow would mean to their war efforts. It would also be a time to mourn the loss of yet another valued member of their organization and a man who Albus had come to see as a son. And of course, there was this new and unexpected business about Harry...

“How? How did they hide it from everyone? By all accounts, no one has heard or seen anything of the sort between them. But how did they do it?” Albus asked the room in general.

He had thought Severus to be one of his closest friends and confidants, as he was the same to the other man. He had thought that they were close enough by now that Severus would have told him; or Harry would have, for that matter. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Severus is— _was_ a Death Eater. If Voldemort had known, or even suspected...it did not bear thinking what would have occurred. Although hadn’t the worst already happened? Severus was dead.

Shaking himself from these maudlin thoughts, Albus knew that he should call a staff meeting immediately. First, he used the magical object that the Order used to communicate the time and date of gatherings. He wrote on the tablet that would let every Order member know that they were required to meet tonight at the usual time. It had been Hermione Granger-Weasley’s idea to use a communication device such as the tablet, in case a message needed to be sent or a meeting needed to be called.

Tempting though it was to sit in his office and wallow in his whirling thoughts, Albus knew that he would only end up back where he started. He spent a few minutes thinking over the few interactions he had seen between Harry and Severus over the past few years, trying to discern some sort of clue as to how and why their affair had begun. However, the desire to let the entire school know what had transpired eventually won out, and so with a heavy heart, he magnified his voice to be heard throughout the castle and grounds and uttered the words that would lead to one of the most difficult days of his life:

“Attention, staff, students, and ghosts. This is Headmaster Dumbledore speaking. I realize that this is highly unorthodox, however I beg of you to have some patience with me. I would appreciate it if the staff could please round up their students and have everyone meet in the Great Hall in fifteen minutes. Prefects, if you are outside of your classrooms, I ask that you ensure that all of the charges within your Houses come to the Great Hall as well. Thank you, that is all.”

Albus cancelled the _Sonorus_ with a small wave of his wand and sighed once again, his eyes feeling the strain after his tears. Fawkes was looking at him with some emotion resembling pity, which only made the tears return to swim in his eyes. He heaved a deep breath in before he could get too lost, and went to stroke the phoenix’s feathers as it let out a soft, sad trill.

“I know, dear friend. I know. I will miss him very much,” Albus muttered, still stroking the fiery plumage. And with another sigh, “Shall we?”

Fawkes hopped onto his master’s shoulder, nudging his beak against the old man’s cheek in a gesture of comfort. Albus patted the beautiful creature’s head before setting off for the Great Hall. It had become oppressive in his circular office, the place where he had learned the truth of so many deaths. He wanted to walk to the Great Hall to clear his head as well as to think of something to say to his staff and students.

He was not deluded in thinking that people would be terribly upset at first; at least, those who hated the Potions Master. But for those who knew Severus, who knew the man behind the mask...It would be a difficult day.

* * *

Kingsley breathed an audible sigh of relief upon seeing Ron and Arthur Weasley step out of one of the Ministry lifts with Patton. Harry had quieted and was otherwise unresponsive; unless he was touched, in which case he would begin screaming again. Kingsley had no idea what to do and was just praying that familiar faces would be able to help Harry out of his state. He hurried over to the two Weasley men before they could come around the fountain and see Harry and Severus.

“Thank you both for coming here so quickly. Has Henry briefed you on the specifics?”

“No, sir. I only told them that the Professor is dead and that it has something to do with Harry,” Patton spoke up before either of the Weasleys could.

“Thank you, Auror Patton. Please go and help the other apprentices secure the atrium. I don’t want a single person in or out of this building, is that understood? The last thing we need right now is the press breathing down our necks,” Kingsley muttered, rubbing a hand over his bald head in a clear sign of stress.

“Yes, sir.”

“Kingsley, what’s going on? What’s Harry got to do with Snape being dead?” Ron asked, now genuinely worried.

Kingsley sighed, not knowing at all where to begin.

“First, Ron, I have to ask you...did Harry ever talk about Severus to you or Hermione? You are his closest friends, so I figured if he would have told anyone, it would have been you two.”

“Well, not really, no. I mean, there was the occasional reminiscing about school and how different he was after not being in his class for a few years, but that was mostly Hermione talking. Harry didn’t talk about Snape at all. Why? What’s this about?”

“It appears...well, it looks like Harry and Severus were much closer than any of us knew,” Kingsley stuttered, unsure of how to explain beyond just showing them.

* * *

Harry was dreaming; it was a pleasant dream. Just images flashing before his eyes, pictures of his life, his friends, his adoptive family...of Severus. For some reason, that name hurt to even think, although the images seemed harmless enough. Flashes of Severus and him lying in bed together; the two of them smiling and laughing at some private joke; kissing Severus; holding hands as they walked down a street in Muggle Paris under heavy glamour spells; Severus chasing him down another Muggle street, wanting revenge for the ice cream Harry had painted across his face; Severus, waking him up with breakfast in bed; Severus just waking, smiling languidly at Harry while he stretched; Severus, laughing softly; Severus, Severus, Severus...

Harry made a high keening noise in his distress, the truth coming to bear in his mind again. Severus was dead. Harry was lying on the Ministry of Magic’s atrium floor, clutching the body of the man he had loved for the past three years. The man who would never give him that coveted rare smile, who would never laugh at Harry’s antics, who would never make love to Harry again.

“Harry? Harry, son, it’s Arthur. Arthur Weasley. Ron’s right here with me. Is it all right if we sit and chat with you?”

Harry’s saving grace. Two people whom he cared about a great deal, and whom he knew cared for him as well. Two people that he could stand to look at, possibly to talk to. But he couldn’t leave Severus here. He just couldn’t.

As if they understood this, Ron and Arthur came into his view, stepping up to kneel down on the other side of the body so they could get a good view of Harry’s face. Harry focused on their familiar features over the expanse of Severus’s chest briefly, before his eyes unfocused again and he began to talk in a soft voice. It was best not to look at them while he said this, while he got his point across.

“I’m not leaving him,” he muttered, his grip tightening on Severus’s side, as if protecting them from ever parting.

“No one asked you to, Harry. It’s all right, you can stay where you are for now,” Arthur’s soothing voice told him. “But eventually, Harry, you’re going to have to let him go.”

“He died alone. I’m certain that he died surrounded by people who hated him, people who were hurting him. But he died scared and alone, and in incredible pain. He went through an hour of the Cruciatus curse. Do you know what that must have felt like?”

Harry paused to take a breath in, his heart aching all over again. He couldn’t face this. Why couldn’t they see that he couldn’t face this? Their presence was starting to feel oppressive now, instead of comforting. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone to mourn the loss of the most important person in his life?

“Harry, mate, there was nothing you could have done. You couldn’t have known that he would be called, or that he’d been found out,” Ron tried, looking sympathetic.

“I was with him,” Harry whispered, his eyes tearing up. He swallowed hard again to keep from falling to pieces. Because there was no doubt that once he started crying, he would not be able to stop. “I was with him last night, when he was called. I had a feeling in my gut, I knew somehow that something was wrong. I could have stopped him from going. I could have stopped him from dying.”

There was a pause as father and son looked to each other to try to find something to say. They both knew that it was in Harry’s nature to blame himself and shoulder all of the burden for mistakes that he felt were his own. It was almost pointless to argue with him on this point. Ron tried a different tact then.

“I know that you want to stay with him, but Harry, they’ve got things—they’ve got to move him.”

“Take him to the morgue. Determine official time of death. Determine official cause of death. I know how it works,” Harry countered. “Please just leave. I want to be alone with Severus.”

“Harry, that’s not Severus,” Arthur began, as a new idea formed in his head.

“Shut up. Go away,” Harry scoffed, more moisture forming in his eyes.

“Harry, it’s not Severus. Ever since his heart stopped beating, since the very minute it stopped, he hasn’t been Severus. At least, not the Severus you knew,” Arthur explained softly.

Harry took another swallow to try and dislodge the lump in his throat. The moisture in his eyes had increased, but no tears had spilled yet.

“I loved him. I was going to marry him,” he gasped, his chest tight, his throat burning, his heart aching.

“We know that, Harry,” Arthur reassured the boy in a compassionate tone. He took the opportunity to move around the two bodies, leaving Ron to kneel and look Harry in the face. Harry tensed visibly, his fingers tightening spasmodically on Severus’s chest. But Arthur only took up position kneeling behind Harry, not touching the young man quite yet. “But if Severus proposed to you, then he must have loved you too. And as someone who loved you, Severus would not have wanted you to do this to yourself, because he isn’t Severus, Harry, not anymore.”

Harry took a moment to try to calm his erratic breathing again and control the tears springing to his eyes, threatening to spill over. He couldn’t break down, not now. He had been so strong, he’d been okay, but Arthur’s words weren’t helping him keep it together. He was convinced that if he could just hold on, keep in command of his emotions, then he could get through this. Suddenly, something occurred to him, something so morbidly funny that he couldn’t contain himself from saying it.

“Do you know...that three hours ago, I asked him to promise me he would come back. He’s never made me a promise, not even when he proposed. He just said that if the fates decided that we could live after the war, then it was up to them. And last night, when I knew that something was horribly wrong and I still let him walk out that door, he actually promised me that he would return,” Harry gasped, half-laughter half-sob. “Isn’t that ridiculous? Isn’t that just the — the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”

Harry couldn’t hold it together anymore and he shut his eyes, finally allowing the sobs to be ripped from his chest and the tears to flow unimpeded. It had hurt so much keeping it inside, but it hurt even more now. Now that he was finally allowing himself to feel his heart breaking. And Merlin, was it breaking.

Arthur, who had been hovering close behind Harry the entire time, took the opportunity to touch the younger man. The man who was his son’s age, and who had just lost the most important person in his life. Arthur’s throat clogged up, but he beat back the lump viciously. This was not his lover, this was not his life to mourn. This was Harry’s, and Harry’s alone at the moment. There was no time for him to cry, not when the boy he had grown to love as a son was in so much pain. And so he grabbed Harry under the shoulder nestled on Severus’s arm, while gently loosening the man’s hold across Severus’s chest with his other hand. Then he pulled the young man into his arms and held him for all he was worth. Harry turned immediately into Arthur’s chest, his shoulders heaving and his breaths coming in hard gasps as he cried. Arthur used the opportunity to look over at his son, who had tears in his eyes.

As Ron stealthily wiped his tears away, he didn’t know what to think. Sure, he’d been surprised to find out that Harry was gay and even more shocked that he had been in a relationship with a much older man, someone they had used to hate. But no one deserved to lose the one they loved. Especially not Harry. Harry, who had lost so much already, so many lives that were important to him. He allowed a few more tears to fall and had to take a deep breath himself when he thought about what he would ever do if he lost his wife. Hermione and he had already been through so much with Harry. Ron would be devastated if Hermione ever died unexpectedly, he was certain.

He wiped his eyes hastily. This was not the time to be thinking about himself. He had to take care of his best friend. He had to make sure that Harry would be all right. He had to get Harry through this, past the anguish and loss. And part of that was getting the body out of here before Harry came to his senses. Because Severus Snape was dead, and Harry would likely never be the same again.

Ron motioned over the Ministry employee in charge of the body and began the process of cleaning up the mess the Dark Lord and his followers had made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have said to "enjoy". But I hope you did like the chapter and that you'll stick around for next week's update.
> 
> Drop me a line if you like, I'm always happy to make new friends; especially during a COVID-19 lockdown that's lasted since December 26th when I have no one to talk to in person. HALP.


	4. A Reflection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Harry Potter series or characters; they belong to the fabulous J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. I just like to create different scenarios within her world.

Strange. There were burn marks and deep gouges in the tabletop that he had never noticed before tonight. The burns and some of the grooves were likely from that time back in his fifth year, when the Weasley twins had used magic to hover a steaming cauldron and bread knives to the table. He did not smile at the memory, despite the fact that he knew it was a pleasant one.

He wondered where the other chiselled marks had come from. Were they from when Sirius had been a boy and a similar scene had been enacted? Did Sirius’ mother create those marks out of anger when her eldest son left their home?

He took a moment to wonder why no one had ever brought up the noticeable imperfections in the kitchen table. He reflected on why no one had seen to ask about the flaws in the table’s surface. Were they so insignificant a detail that people ignored them? Or was it simply that no one cared enough to notice? And why had no one seen to fixing the small mistakes in the woodwork; all it would take was a simple patching spell applied to a new plank of wood. Then, all of the blemishes and imperfections would be hidden from the world, as if they had never existed.

Green eyes filled with tears for what felt like the millionth time in twelve hours. Harry hadn’t cried since those terrible moments in the Ministry of Magic atrium, and yet his eyes still felt the strain. But now, he did not know if he could continue to hold himself together. Because the thought of something so seemingly insignificant being covered up and forgotten, like so many things in life, was just dreadful. If the patching spell were applied right now, would people see the difference? Would people care, would they even give a _fuck_?

Harry slammed his hand down on the countertop to smother the thoughts swirling around his head. The tears that had been threatening came at last and his face screwed up in unimaginable pain. Unimaginable because he just couldn’t bear the thought of what life would be like without that one warm beautiful thing in his life: the man who had stolen his heart and kept it ransom for the past two years. The man who was right now laying on a cold, hard slab in the St. Mungo’s Hospital morgue awaiting the arrangement of his funeral. His funeral. Oh God. Harry hadn’t even thought about the service. How could he? He’d spent the entire day sitting at the kitchen table, alternately staring at the table and — when he became bored — the ceiling. Eventually, both Ron and Mr. Weasley had had to leave to look after their own affairs before the Order gathered. Harry had been left alone only when he had assured them that he would be fine on his own for a few hours. After all, in just a few minutes, the Order would meet to discuss the implications of the death of their one and only spy.

Harry scoffed bitterly through his tears. That was all anyone cared about; how the lack of information from the other side would affect their chances of winning the war. No one cared that a life had been taken too early. No one cared that a man who had risked his life to give them their precious information was now dead. No one cared about the man who had sneered and ridiculed them. No one cared that Harry was now so alone he could feel the darkness creeping in on him. And certainly no one cared that the man who had been an essential part of Harry’s life was now gone. Severus Snape was dead and no one gave a _fucking — shit_. Severus was like the table that Harry had been staring at for the better part of three hours. The table that had all these little imperfections that no one would remember if it was replaced.

And suddenly, Harry’s rage swelled within him. His magic responded to his intense emotions, swirling around him and rattling the glasses and dishware in the cabinets. If he had any say in it, _no one_ was going to forget the flaws in the table; he would make certain of it. Harry stood, his emotions nearly too much to handle while sitting; and then he began putting his fury to good use. Harry threw punch after punch into the wooden grain of the table. The pain that blossomed in his knuckles was soon forgotten as his feelings grew too powerful to contain any longer. He jabbed at the table repeatedly, his magic helping him to gouge and burn and splinter the wooden surface.

He couldn’t stand to be still anymore and so moved frantically around the table, striking it again and again, creating more of the little flaws in its otherwise smooth surface. And when that was no longer enough, he moved to the side table holding Sirius’ old china and smashed the teapot on the floor. His anger knew no bounds; at the moment, he was all-powerful, he was pain, he was mercy. Mercy for the feelings that had no other way to be released than this cathartic ritual of smash — crash — tear. Smash — crash — tear. Smash-crash-tear. Smash-crash-tear. SmashCrashTear. Smash —

Harry felt the wind knocked out of him in the space of a heartbeat. The last object he had thrown was an ancient-looking crystal decanter that Sirius had once told him belonged to his great Auntie Melpomene. Harry remembered the story well, as it had been right after Arthur Weasley was attacked in the Department of Mysteries. They had been sitting alone in the kitchen following the news of the Weasley patriarch’s recovery, and Sirius had stood to grab the decanter, which was filled with a deep amber liquid.

“It’s scotch,” Sirius had explained at Harry’s look. “Remus introduced me to it a few years back. It helps with the nerves.”

Sirius had given Harry a look of contemplation before shaking his head and filling just the one glass, which matched the crystal antique. He downed the glass in one gulp and refilled it, then came to sit next to Harry.

“These glasses and that crystal monstrosity belonged to my great Auntie Melpomene. She left the collection to my mother, although Mum never did have much use for the drink,” Sirius had huffed, taking another sip. “Aunt Melpomene had a knack for wards. She used to say one could never be too careful. Although for her, I guess you couldn’t be.”

“What do you mean?” Harry had questioned, curious despite the somber mood.

“Well, her husband Artie Black, or Artemius, well he didn’t quite believe in wards. He used to say that if someone wanted to see him that badly, he might as well just let them in. One night, while Aunt Melpomene was visiting her mother with their baby, a few of Grindelwald’s lackeys came a-calling. See, in that day, the Black name was respected. We weren’t light, but we weren’t quite dark either. Neutral, you could say. So one night, Grindelwald’s pack of followers came looking for poor Artie, and well —” Sirius raised his glass in a silent salute before downing the rest of his drink. “Needless to say, Melpomene was never quite the same. I always thought it was a bit ironic, that.”

“How so?” Harry had asked, confused.

“Melpomene is a figure from Greek mythology, Harry. She was the muse of tragedy.”

And how ironic was it now that that particular memory had come back to haunt him? Now that his very own tragedy had occurred, now that his own lover was dead, and he was sitting here, breaking the last remnants of that tragic past. Harry kicked some glass out of his way, returning to seat himself at the table. Now that his anger and resentment were gone, he felt drained all over again. His breaths were coming in gasps that burned his lungs coming in. He closed his eyes and focused on calming his breathing, trying to get back to some kind of normalcy. Once he felt relatively calm again, he opened his eyes and returned to staring at the mangled table.

Now that it had been so thoroughly chewed up, it was easier to see other facets to the table. It was not only filled with small marks and grooves—although Harry had just vastly improved upon the surface’s weary look—but it also showed hints of beauty and splendour. The quality of wood, for example. It must have been a very expensive wizard’s oak, charmed for durability. And the particular stain of the timber—a mash-up of brown, dark chocolate, and black—was gorgeous. Harry found an unmarked section of the wood, tracing the whorls and lines made by years of growth. It really was a beautiful table, once you got past the unattractive bits. And wasn’t that just the perfect metaphor for Severus, he thought with a tremulous smile.

Severus had held no appeal to Harry when he’d been younger. Then Harry had grown up and discovered that the world was not so rose-tinted as he had once thought. He had begun to see things in a different way; as a consequence, he had begun to see people, and eventually Severus, in a whole new way. He started to watch his former Professor at Order meetings, trying to discern what made the older man tick, why he felt the need to be so cruel, why Harry had never seen him with anyone—male or female.

Some would say it was the Professor’s unpleasant features and even more repellent personality that had driven away any suitor dense enough to pursue him. But to Harry’s keen eye, Severus’s features distinguished him from any other and made him seem dignified. His patrician nose, which was a poor sight to most, held a different appeal to Harry; he couldn’t quite explain it, but he loved the beaky nose. Maybe it was the way it bumped Harry’s cheek when they spooned together on nights when they could sleep in the same bed, or the endearing manner in which it always seemed to get in the way of their kisses. Severus’s eyes, which to most were cold and lifeless, never failed to catch Harry’s full attention. Harry thought of them as the most expressive features his lover possessed and he often caught himself staring into them, enthralled by their intensity. Severus’s teeth were crooked and slightly yellowed, but to Harry, that didn’t matter one whit, because the tongue that lay beyond that barrier was talented and clever in a way Harry had never known. Severus’s hair, which some thought was in a perpetual state of greasiness, was fine and soft as feathers—once the potion fumes that clung to the midnight tresses were washed away.

As for the man’s personality, Harry had found that Severus was like an onion; once Harry had peeled away all of the layers, Severus was a man worth getting to know. Beyond the sarcasm, sneers, and scathing retorts was a kind, gentle, and loving soul. It had taken Harry at least a year to peel back enough layers to be able to actually see the true personality of his lover, and even now, Harry didn’t think he was finished peeling. He let out a pained laugh that turned into a half-sob near the end. More tears fell as he realized all over again that he would never get the chance to find out what lay beneath the seeming hundreds of layers of his lover’s character. He felt broken all over again, shattered into tiny pieces like the shards of crystal and china that were scattered across the kitchen. As he lay his head down on his folded arms, he wondered if he would ever feel whole again.

* * *

Arthur Weasley stepped into Grimmauld Place with his wife, ten minutes before the Order meeting was scheduled to begin. As he hung his cloak in the entryway, he did not know what to expect when he arrived in the kitchen. There was no doubt in his mind that Harry had not left the small space since Arthur and Ron had departed earlier that afternoon, as none of the other lamps in the house were burning. He took the time to wave the flames on in the hallway leading to the kitchen before he and Molly walked towards the room at the end of the hall.

Arthur’s eyes widened when they stepped across the threshold. All around them, debris and chaos lay in spades. The side table that had held all of the china and crystal drinking glasses had been overturned and its contents spilled all over the narrow kitchen. Dishes from the cupboards had also fallen out and the one window pane had cracked, while the drapes had been torn to shreds. Harry himself was sitting in the same chair he’d been sat in since that morning, his head pillowed on his folded arms as he shook with silent sobs. From what they could see, his knuckles were bleeding and no wonder; Arthur’s eyes took in the not-insubstantial damage to the table surface with disbelief.

“Oh Harry,” Arthur’s wife lamented gently, rushing around the table to lay her hands on his shoulders.

Harry had stiffened slightly when he heard her speak, but as soon as she touched him, he turned into her arms, embracing her fiercely.

“I’m — I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m s-s-s-so s-sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” the young man blubbered.

Molly hushed him gently, pulling him to stand with her so that she could take him into her arms properly. Despite not being the tallest of men, Harry still seemed to tower over Molly, but he immediately laid his head on her shoulder and continued to cry inconsolably.

Arthur, feeling useless, began tidying up. He used his wand to sweep around the room, slowly putting everything to rights. He felt tired. The kind of tired that had nothing to do with sleep deprivation, even though he knew he’d had less sleep than he should. This war was starting to take its toll on him. After all, it had been fifteen years since the Dark Lord had risen again, and the Order had been working tirelessly to stop him from gaining more power. Arthur knew that he was not the only one to feel this way, and yet he felt even more worn down, now more than ever. Perhaps it was the lengthy hours that he had been working lately, or the extra effort he put in to guard some of the Ministry’s secrets. But he had been doing this for years. Perhaps it was the knowledge that after today, they would have no more intelligence coming from the inside; or maybe the fact that one of his boys was hurting. Because that was exactly how he saw Harry now, as one of his own. The young man had become a permanent fixture at Sunday dinners and Arthur had come to love him like he was his own blood.

Arthur sighed as he continued to tidy the room and repair the broken objects and heirlooms. He was tired.

* * *

Meanwhile, Molly Weasley had managed to calm Harry enough to sit him down and begin to repair the damage to his bloody knuckles. She tutted when she saw the extent to which Harry had hurt himself, pausing a moment to stroke the boy’s cheek. Because at this moment, Harry was but a child to her, one that needed her and one that she had to try to heal. Not just the physical wounds he had done himself, but the invisible hurts that she knew would stay with him much longer. One never was quite whole once someone you loved passed away. She would know. But she couldn’t think about her brothers now, they were long dead and she had more pressing matters to take care of: Harry, for one.

“All right, dear; now I can see you’ve got splinters stuck in your fists. I’ll have to remove them with magic, but don’t worry, I’ll do them one by one and you’ll only feel a little pinch,” Molly assured her charge.

“No. P-please. I just — I need you to take them all out. Please? Mrs. W-Weasley, I just need to feel something. Anything else. Please,” Harry beseeched her, his stunning green eyes full of moisture.

“Harry, dear, if I take them all out at once, it will be quite painful,” Molly tried to dissuade him, concerned for his well-being above all.

He took a shaky breath before meeting her square in the eye, determined. She had seen that look before. She knew it meant he was not going to give in. “I need to know I can feel something other than this — this pressure. Please.”

Molly looked unsure, but she eventually nodded.

“If you’re quite certain,” she queried, hoping he would change his mind.

“I am.”

She inhaled deeply and then directed him to lay his hands on his knees, knuckles facing upwards. She told him to take a few deep breaths and soothingly explained that she would have them all out in a jiffy. She took another deep breath with him and then said the incantation.

* * *

The effect was instantaneous. The splinters, called by the magic, shot out of Harry’s knuckles like deadly little missiles and hovered in the air between his hands and Mrs. Weasley’s wand. Harry let out a choked-off yell of pain, his eyes tearing and overflowing despite his resolve. It hurt exactly as she had said it would, like a thousand needles being torn from his skin and tearing it on the way out. He shut his eyes and breathed through his teeth in fast gasps, feeling like the Cruciatus Curse had just been applied solely to his hands. But it had worked. The crushing weight that had been pressing down on him since this morning had finally abated and he could _breathe_. He took a few moments to appreciate the ease of his breaths and then opened his eyes again, unclenching his fists from his knees.

Mrs. Weasley looked like she regretted causing him so much pain, but Harry quickly assuaged that guilt by leaning over and giving her a fierce hug.

“Thank you,” he whispered, turning his head to kiss her cheek swiftly. “I’m going to go take a shower. I’ll be down in time for the meeting.”

“But Harry dear, what about your hands? I’ve still got to heal the wounds,” Molly fretted.

Harry had stood and made his way to the kitchen door before her words had halted him. He turned slightly, swallowing hard.

“I’ve got po — I’ve got things upstairs that will heal them. Don’t worry.”

He had to be careful. He couldn’t afford a slip so grave as that. Because if he thought of potions — no, no, no, don’t think it, don’t think, don’t think, don’t think. Can’t afford to think about who brewed them, whose concern had made Harry stock them in his medicine cabinet, who was now dead. _No_. Stop it, Harry. Must keep calm, must not think, must not think, must not think. Because if he thought, he would be lost all over again. And he couldn’t afford that.

* * *

Downstairs, most of the Order was now arriving. The kitchen was abuzz with the news in the _Evening Prophet_ , that of Harry Potter and Severus Snape. On the front page was a picture from that very morning, of Harry laying down with his arms around Severus. Kingsley Shacklebolt was furious, of course, that someone had managed to sneak a camera in _and_ take a picture on top of it all. He had wanted to spare Harry the press for at least a day, but it seemed that word had travelled fast. It always did when it came to Harry Potter, Auror extraordinaire and hope of the Wizarding World.

However, all of the gossiping and disbelieving exclamations of _did you know?_ halted as soon as Albus Dumbledore stepped into the room. Everyone quickly took their seats and a hush fell over the room as their usually fearless leader walked somberly to the head of the table. No one dared touch the empty chair to the old man’s right, which was a stolid reminder that they had lost one of the most essential pieces of their cause. And no one commented on the empty seat between Ron Weasley and Nymphadora Tonks, where Harry Potter was supposed to be sitting. When Albus was finally seated in his chair, he looked to Minerva McGonagall on his left, sending her the ghost of a smile.

She looked to be the worst in the room besides him. Her eyes were red and puffy, her face pale and drawn. She had taught Severus when he was at Hogwarts, mentored him when he came to teach a few years later, fought alongside him when the war began heating up, patched him up when he came back too hurt to do it himself, and been his friend for more than twenty-five years. She was devastated, but not as much as Albus had been...was still.

He had announced the news of Severus’s death that morning, as soon as he had known, and the shock, horror, and deep anguish lining his face was something few had ever seen from him before. Minerva had only remembered seeing it one other time: the night James and Lily Potter had been murdered. And speaking of the Potters...where was Harry?

Albus took a moment to collect himself and looked around the room at the people that he had been working with for the better part of fifteen years and upwards. All of the faces looking back at him were grim, some more than others. Some of the faces were quite sad, while others were determined. It was that second set of faces that he tried to focus on, lest he become consumed by his grief once more.

“My friends,” he spoke at last, his voice soft but firm in its resolve. “Today, we have lost —”

Albus halted as the man that he had wanted to talk to all day stood on the threshold of the kitchen. The man who was apparently much closer to the deceased than they had all thought.

“Harry, dear boy. Please, join us,” he implored, raising a hand to indicate the empty seat left for him between Ron and Tonks.

Harry hesitated briefly at the door before taking in a deep breath and stepping inside. He had to tell them about Severus. He had to let them know about the man that Severus had been when he was with Harry. He had to make sure they wouldn’t forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a pretty sad chapter and all, but all I can think of is the Potter Puppet Pals' "Wizard Angst." If you've never heard of this truly magical production, please do yourselves a favour and go watch it. It will make living in a COVID-19 world WAY more enjoyable.
> 
> Look out next week for a slightly more cheerful, but probably equally depressing chapter!


	5. A Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is one of my favourites and I do hope that you enjoy the snapshots of happiness that are sprinkled throughout.

I’m dreaming, Harry thought. There couldn’t be any other reasonable explanation. Because his eyes were closed and he was laying in a bed, and there were arms bracketing his body in a comfortable hold. Arms that he would recognize even in a dream, they were so familiar. Harry was just thinking of trying to wake himself up when first a stubbled cheek and then a beaky nose brushed the side of his face gently. Then, a kiss to his temple, and the feeling of those arms tightening their hold and soft breath ghosting over his ear.

“Then don’t wake up,” uttered the smoky voice that Harry loved so much, as another kiss was feathered on the side of his neck.

“Severus,” Harry whispered desperately, not daring to open his eyes and discover that it _was_ a dream. Because he didn’t think he could bear to lose that part of himself all over again.

“Mmm, in the mood for it, are we?” chuckled the voice as more insistent kisses were patterned across Harry’s neck. “Then I shall oblige you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry didn’t dare breathe as he opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was that he was in the hotel room they had rented the night before Severus’s death. The night before his life changed irrevocably. Tears stung Harry’s eyes as he noted where he was. Had everything else been a dream then? Had he made the entire scenario up in his own head? It had felt real at times, but mostly Harry had felt in a trance since he had found Severus dead in the atrium.

A burgeoning hope settled in Harry’s chest and more tears flooded his eyes. But he had to be sure. He had to be sure that this wasn’t a dream, that he wasn’t just making this up. Because if it turned out that this was a dream all over again, then he didn’t know how he would cope. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes again, hardly daring to smile at the loving kisses and caresses from Severus.

“Severus?”

“Mm?” Harry gasped as Severus bit at his neck in response, the feeling eliciting a response in him despite his better instincts.

“What day is it?”

“Umm...the 17th of May, I believe.”

This was muttered around Harry’s flesh once again. Harry took in a shaky breath. One question right. Another to go before he could be truly convinced.

“Could you...” Harry’s voice cracked and immediately the kisses stopped and Severus’s arms hugged him more tightly.

“Harry? What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” Harry insisted weakly, scrunching his eyes more tightly shut. “I just...I need to feel your heartbeat. I need to feel it. Please.”

There was a pause, likely while Severus wondered why it was so important for Harry to feel his fiance’s beating heart. But eventually, moist lips brushed the side of his face and Severus’s arms loosened their hold. Harry panicked briefly when there was no more bodily contact, thinking he’d dreamt it all, but then the older man’s hands were back, helping him to turn over. Harry made certain that his eyes were closed as tightly as possible, so he could still hold onto the illusion if he was wrong. Severus made no comment beyond a concerned hum as he saw Harry’s expression. Once Harry had fully turned over, he felt breath ghost across his lips only seconds before those lovely thin lips pressed to his own lightly.

“I’m right here,” Severus murmured into Harry’s mouth, not bothering to move back as their lips continued to mesh. “I’m not going anywhere, love, I’m right here with you.”

Harry indulged in a few moments with his lover, allowing their tongues to tangle languidly and Severus’s strong hands to stroke his skin with light touches. After all, if this turned out to be a dream, then Harry wanted to hold onto these feelings for as long as possible after they were over. Finally, Harry realized that he could no longer put off the inevitable, and so kept his eyes shut as their lips parted at last. Both men were slightly out of breath from the long, slow kisses. Severus elected to cuddle their faces close together, leaning forward so their foreheads touched and their breaths mingled.

“I love you,” Harry whispered, so softly he wasn’t sure that Severus had heard until the other man responded.

“I adore you,” Severus murmured in a voice roughened by their loving.

“Please don’t let this be a dream,” Harry pleaded.

His tears finally leaked out of the corners of his eyes, even as Severus placed one last butterfly kiss along his jaw. Severus made another tsk in the back of his throat once he noticed the droplets of moisture tracking swiftly across Harry’s face, but otherwise said nothing else.

Harry inhaled deeply and moved his hand towards Severus’s chest slowly. When he encountered the bare chest, his breath hitched. It was warm and familiar in every way, and Harry spared a few more moments to ghost his hand across the planes of Severus’s stomach and little by little, inched his way up to where he knew Severus’s heart should be beating.

Lub-Dub. Lub-Dub. Lub-Dub. LubDub. LubDub. LubDub. LubDub. Lub-Dub. Lub-Dub. Lub-Dub.

The fascinating nuances of the human heartbeat had never escaped Harry’s notice before, and it was especially captivating now. The way Severus’s heart beat faster as he inhaled, then slowed once more on the exhale. Harry had once insisted on spending an entire night listening to his lover’s heart beating firmly in the other man’s chest. Severus had scoffed at his sentimentality at the time, accusing Harry of being too emotional. But they had met just after Harry had lost some of his colleagues in a brutal battle with the Death Eaters and Harry had needed to be reassured that his lover wasn’t going to die. Harry had barely slept that night, but when he finally did drop off, it had been to the intensely comforting feeling of small drums beating in Severus’s chest.

That feeling had not worn off whatsoever. Now that Harry had reassured himself that there was in fact a heartbeat to feel, the tears flowed more rapidly and sobs tore at his throat. It had been a dream. The whole awful experience, the entire thing had been a figment of his unconscious mind. If he hadn’t been so relieved, he would have laughed, but as it was he could barely contain his loss. Because even though Severus was alive— _alive!_ —the thought that he had lost him, even in a dream, would not leave him.

“Don’t ever die,” Harry pleaded brokenly, the hand over Severus’s heart nearly clawing the warm chest, while his other hand came up to intertwine with Severus’s own fingers. “Please, just promise me you’ll never die.”

“I can’t make that promise,” Severus said, in a tone much different from the one he had been using so far. It made Harry pause. “You know I can’t. But you cannot dwell on death, Harry, it isn’t any way to live.”

“I know,” Harry sniffed, hugging Severus all the more tightly. “I just thought I lost you.”

“Well, you haven’t,” Severus rebuffed, running a soothing hand through Harry’s mess of hair.

They both paused for a few moments, and Severus continued petting Harry’s scalp while they hugged and Harry continued to feel Severus’s heartbeat. Harry couldn’t believe that he’d made it all up in a dream. It had seemed so real. It had seemed like his heart had actually broken, that Severus had in fact been dead, that the funeral was going to be that very day. But it had all been a figment of his unconscious mind. He sighed, relaxing even more into Severus’s body.

“Now, as much as I love having you so close, you still haven’t opened your eyes yet,” Severus chuckled, stroking Harry’s hair back from his forehead in a fond gesture. “And I should very much like to see those green eyes of yours one last time before we have to leave this hovel.”

Harry laughed briefly, realizing that he’d been acting silly ever since waking. But it could be fun to make Severus work for it.

“Oh, I don’t know. What’s in it for me?” he asked cheekily, a grin starting to form. He was just so _happy_! And relieved, and joyful, and...well, just happy.

Severus growled playfully, seeming slightly frustrated with his lover. The strong arms tightened for the briefest of moments before Harry’s mouth was assaulted by soft, light kisses. Any time Harry leaned forward to deepen them, Severus would pull further away until Harry pouted. Then the process would begin again. Kisses. Light, butterfly kisses. A tongue trying to swipe at thin lips. Retreat. And again.

“Oh all right already!” Harry cried in frustration, laughing gaily. “But only if you continue where you left off, you annoying tease!

At last, Harry opened his eyes. Abruptly, the laughter died in his throat and he pushed himself away from skin that had suddenly become chilled. Severus Snape was staring at him with cold, dead eyes. The eyes that Harry had seen on that terrible morning, only days before. Harry spared a few moments while propelling himself backwards to look over the rest of the older man’s body. Purple bruises decorated the thin chest just like they had when they’d found the body.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” the voice so much like his lover’s uttered.

And although there was emotion behind the words, none of it showed on the face that was as dead as the eyes staring back at him. To Harry’s horror, one of the pale arms reached for him and gripped his wrist tightly even as he tried desperately to get away. His legs wouldn’t move and now strong fingers held him fast. Harry yelled, in agony and terror, trying to free himself.

“No! Get away from me! Oh God, please! Let me wake up! Wake up! _Wake up_!”

Harry’s eyes snapped open and upon feeling that he still couldn’t move his legs and that his wrist was still being held fast, he reacted. He swung blindly, squirming to get out of the death grip on his forearm.

“Harry, it was just a dream! Harry, it’s Ron! _Harry_ —Oof!”

Harry was finally released and then realized that his legs were tangled in the sheets, which was why he hadn’t been able to move them. He stopped struggling to free himself, and with that came the clarity of his situation. Ron. He’d just hit Ron, who was sprawled on the floor beside Harry’s bed, massaging his jaw.

“Oh Merlin, Ron. I’m so sorry,” Harry wheezed, tears falling at the knowledge that he had dreamt it all.

He had made up the warm skin, the firm arms holding him gently, the heartbeat, all of it. It had been a dream and he had let it take hold of him until the very end, when the reality was suddenly much better. Because he had wanted to believe. Believe that Severus was alive, that he’d only been making it up, that Severus hadn’t _died_. Merlin. How was he supposed to do this again? Oh, right. Deny it. Be angry. Try to come to terms with it by arguing with his friends about what he could have done differently. Go through depression. Then accept it and move on. What a crock of _shit_.

Harry flung the covers off himself, feeling upset for more than one reason at the moment.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go get ready,” he muttered, clenching his fists when Ron gave him a look of understanding.

How could he _possibly_ understand what Harry was going through? How could any of them? Because they all looked at Harry like he was some freak, some outsider that needed to be looked after, like some fucking _invalid_.

“What are you looking at?” he finally snapped, storming from the room.

* * *

Harry listened to the old, wizened wizard presiding over the funeral service with dulled ears. He could barely make out what the man was saying, and so his mind was drifting in and out of the proceedings. His anger from the morning had ebbed away at last and now he was filled with a sadness so deep, he could not seem to focus on much else. He could do this. He could. He just had to keep going, put one foot in front of the other. Make his speech. Shake peoples’ hands. Accept their condolences...Bury his lover. Merlin, how had it come to this?

Harry asked himself the question for the umpteenth time. No matter how many times he kept coming back to the events leading up to Severus’s death, he could not comprehend what had happened. Since those brutal moments after discovering that his lover had been killed, he had gone over the events again and again, trying to see where he could have done something. It did not matter that his friends and indeed the entire Order felt that there was nothing he could have done. It did not matter that he knew in his logical mind that there was nothing he could have done. It did not matter...because the result was still the same. He still felt responsible. He still felt that there was something he could have done. He still grieved.

Harry felt numb at the moment. He allowed his eyes to drift around the cemetery they were in. There were lots of people here. More than he had expected, really. But he probably should have seen this coming; what with the recent revelations about Severus being his lover, and a spy for the Order. Harry found it funny how the press had grasped that Severus and he had been secretly dating for the past three years as more important than the fact that the formerly believed dark wizard was actually an agent for the light. And so it was that the public found the first detail much more important than the second one. Because if Harry Potter had vouched for Severus Snape as a person, then who cared what the man had done with his life? Harry felt like smiling at this last thought, but could not make his facial muscles comply with him. If they had ever had a chance to ‘come out’ to their friends and the world at large, he would not have predicted this outcome, and nor would Severus. Harry remembered Severus’s thoughts on the matter quite clearly, in fact.

* * *

_“Have you finally lost whatever sense is left in that bird’s-nest-infested hollow you call a head?”_

_Harry blinked at Severus in slight astonishment. Where_ did _the man come up with his insults? Well, at least they knew that Severus hadn’t lost his touch with these things, despite what the man believed about Harry’s concerted efforts to ‘soften his edges’. Harry snickered at that thought, prompting his lover to glare at him in a way Harry hadn’t witnessed in at least a year—well, not directed his way, at any rate._

_“What? I think it’s a valid question,” Harry commented while throwing his robes onto the ottoman in their room._

_They were in Paris for the next two days. It was summer and since Severus hadn’t anticipated being summoned and Harry was able to get the time off, they had made the impromptu decision to take a mini-holiday. It was the first time they’d been able to make it away together. Of course, they’d had to apply heavy glamour charms and leave Britain at different times, but in Harry’s eyes the subterfuge was well worth it. Because he had two whole days and two whole nights to spend with his lover, and Harry planned on using every — single — moment to enjoy Severus._

_However, being in the same place for so long and being unable to be themselves had brought up some feelings that he had thought long buried. When they had begun their relationship over two years ago, Harry had wanted to tell if not everyone, then at least their friends, how he felt about his new lover. But both he and Severus had agreed that it was best to keep it to themselves, especially because of the war and their roles in it, but also because they had wanted to see where their feelings would take them. After all, it had started off purely as sexual tension, then morphed into fucking each other’s brains out, then finally, after nearly a year of coping with their stress via sex, they’d both realized that there was much more to their feelings than originally thought. Of course, they still liked to make love until exhaustion, but now it was more than just sex and they lingered for as long as possible in their hideouts for the night. And Harry wanted more because of it. He sighed, thinking that if Ron were here and had been apprised of the situation, he’d tell Harry in no uncertain terms that Harry was acting like a girl._

_Harry brought himself abruptly back to their current predicament when he heard his name being called. His eyes focused on his lover, and he smiled almost wistfully at the older man._

_“Harry, we’ve discussed this before. I will not discuss it again,” Severus told him in no uncertain terms, turning down the duvet. Harry’s heart did a little flip in his chest while his stomach dropped abruptly._

_“Is it so horrible a thought?” he asked the older man softly. “Is the idea of telling people so despicable to you that you won’t even consider it?”_

_“Do not put words in my mouth. You know that is not how I meant it,” Severus snapped with the same glare. That made two high-calibre glares in as many minutes; that had to be a new record for them since starting their relationship._

_“Do I?” Harry enquired, and was horrified to hear his voice held a tremor._

_He huffed angrily at himself, turning his back on Severus to busy himself with unpacking. It was for this reason that he did not see the other man pause in preparing their bed, nor did he see Severus’s face turn pained. By the time Harry turned to look at his silent partner, Severus had bottled his feelings inside and his face was a mask of indifference again. Harry looked into the dark eyes, finding no hint of emotion in them._

_“Right. I’m being an idiot,” he muttered, moving towards the door to their room._

_“Where are you going?” he heard Severus say to his back._

_“To the bar downstairs. I could use a drink,” Harry explained in a hushed tone, starting to apply his glamour again._

* * *

Harry would have kept on day-dreaming about the past had it not been for a quick squeeze to his knee. He looked over to see who had disturbed him to find Hermione smiling at him wanly, and realized that a lot of people were looking at him. Speech time. Bugger.

Harry inhaled a shaky breath, managing a short but insincere smile to Hermione before he stood. The procession, which had been quiet and still up until now, seemed to grow restless with the promise of their purported saviour’s appearance. After all, this was why most of them had come, was it not? Harry was the reason for all of the hubbub; or rather, Harry’s relationship with Severus. No one felt the need to mourn the man that Harry had loved and continued to love. All anyone cared about was the fact that the great bat of the dungeons had somehow bewitched the most handsome bachelor in the Wizarding world to marry him. Instead of making him angry, the thought only made Harry feel more tired. His bones ached with exhaustion, almost as much as his heart ached with emotion.

With a sigh that was entirely too world-weary for a man of his age, Harry stepped up to the small podium that had been conjured for the occasion. After all, it wasn’t every day that the saviour of the Wizarding world spoke at the funeral of the man he loved. Harry cleared his suddenly dry throat as he looked out at the procession. There were the faces he recognized in the front; the Weasleys and Hermione of course, as they were truly Harry’s family, the members of the Order, the entire staff of Hogwarts, some of his friends and co-workers from within the Ministry, a few people he knew from his school days, and even some faces he recognized from pictures of past students before his time. Then there were the strangers, people who had come out just to see what the circus was all about, his fans, his supporters, more Ministry people he did not recognize, some foreign wizards by the looks of things, and the Minister for Magic, whom Harry had only spoken a few brief words to once or twice. He closed his eyes on all of the people patiently staring at him and took a deep breath in.

“Thank you all for coming,” he managed in a voice that did not sound as pathetic as he had imagined it would. “It means a great deal. I am not so disillusioned to think that you are all here to say farewell to this particular man. That would be foolish to the extreme.” Harry paused as several people shifted a little guiltily at those comments. “However, seeing as you are here, I may as well try to impart to you how courageous a man Severus Snape was. How fair and true and loyal he was, and how much he sacrificed to help the good of the Wizarding world.

“Severus was a very private man, as all of you know. It was difficult to get to know him as a student, but even more so as an adult,” Harry chuckled weakly, looking down at the podium in remembrance. “He was often taciturn, cold, cruel, and described, quite frequently I might add, as the bat of the dungeons. I admit it because I used to think of him this way when I was a student.”

Harry heard a few chuckles around the crowd, and smiled despite the pain this was causing him. He needed to be strong, he needed to finish his speech. He needed to tell the world the story of the man they all owed so much.

“However, if you were ever lucky enough to get a glimpse of the inside of Severus Snape, which few ever were, then you know most of what I am about to tell you. Severus was a quiet boy, shy and insecure...”

And so it was that Harry told the assemblage about Severus Snape: as a boy, as a young man, and finally, the man that he had come to admire and eventually love. He told them of the friendship that Severus had had with Harry’s mother; of Severus’s abusive home life and the eventual death of his mother when Severus was but sixteen; of Severus calling Lily Evans a Mudblood and how that solidified his place with the Death Eaters. Harry told them of how Severus had saved his life many times in school and many more since then. He told them about the countless lives Severus had saved, of the raids he had prevented, and finally, about Severus’s and Harry’s plans for the future.

“You know, he never truly asked me to marry him outright. We managed to go on a mini-holiday in France a few months back now, and we had a row. I wanted to be able to tell our very close mutual friends about us, however, as the calm and rational partner of the relationship, Severus reminded me in quite the brutal fashion that we wouldn’t be able to come out with him spying on Voldemort.”

Several exclamations rose from the crowd at the use of Voldemort’s name, but Harry calmly cleared his throat, shuffled the pages in front of him, and waited for the crowd to calm down. He had never understood their fear of the name before and he did not plan on indulging them at every turn just because they did not like to hear it.

“As the less rational and perhaps more emotional partner in our relationship,” Harry began, only to smile wanly at the people who tittered quietly. Harry took the moment to collect his thoughts.

* * *

_“Come here.”_

_“What? Want to give me a shake and tell me how stupid I’m being?” Harry demanded in a strained voice. Damn. His emotions were getting the best of him and he didn’t want Severus as a witness. He wanted to go downstairs, knock back a few shots of whiskey, and drown out the voices in his head telling him that of course Severus didn’t want to tell anyone, that Harry was just a child, that Harry was useless and of course Severus wouldn’t want to have anyone know about them._

_“Harry.” Softly. “Please. Come here.”_

_Harry froze. Although unwilling to concede in their fight, he couldn’t refuse a direct plea. They were so rare, after all, especially coming from this man. This man who was taciturn, and cruel, and —_

_“I love you.”_

_— And just about the most damned confusing man in the entire world. Harry stopped readjusting his nose to fit his now proportionately larger features, causing the most amusing sight of one nostril being twice as large as the other one. Harry noticed none of his glamour work. All he could do was stare in the mirror at the face of his lover. The face that was desperate, and pleading, and completely and utterly open for the first time that Harry could ever remember. Because even though they had been dating for the past twenty-six months, Harry had never,_ ever _, seen so much clear emotion on the other man’s features. His eyes alone were the most pained and soulful creatures Harry had ever known. Even now, the features were shifting back to closed, the eyes blank as an artist’s canvas once more, and Severus was looking away from Harry’s own searching green eyes._

_“I apologize. I should not —”_

_“What did you say?” choked Harry, dropping his hands — one still grasping his wand — to clutch at the desk he suddenly felt the great need to lean upon._

_“I said I apologize,” Severus gritted out impatiently, some fire lighting in those black depths as they looked up once more._

_“No. Before that,” Harry managed with a slight whine to his tone._

_The blank face was back. Severus clearly did not know what to make of this new tone, nor of the fact that Harry was now staring so intensely at him that he was beginning to feel he should never have spoken that deepest, darkest of secrets. However..._

_“I said...I said I love you,” Severus struggled to push out of a suddenly very dry mouth._

_Severus’s eyes widened as Harry turned abruptly to stare directly at him this time._

_“Again.”_

_“Pardon me?”_

_“Say it again,” Harry implored._

_Hope began to bloom in Severus’s chest, hope that his feelings may not be unwelcome, that they may even be returned. He tried not to smile as he slowly walked towards where his love was standing._

_“I’d much rather show you,” Severus uttered slowly, smiling slightly as he reached Harry. “But first. Would you_ please _remove that dreadful attempt at a glamour?”_

_Harry looked taken aback by the request and turned briefly to look at himself in the mirror before swivelling his gaze back to Severus. For a moment, they both said nothing._

_“It is rather terrible, isn’t it?” Harry whispered with a blank expression. Severus nodded, equally unreadable, as Harry waved his wand to remove the dreadful features._

_Very slowly, as though he was expecting Harry to react like a skittish animal, Severus brought his hands to Harry’s face. He stroked his fingers lightly over Harry’s cheekbones, and as the younger man closed his eyes, over Harry’s eyelids, forehead, nose, and finally, his lips. Before Harry could react beyond a sharp intake of breath, Severus leaned forward and kissed him._

_Harry couldn’t believe it. Severus Snape — THE Severus Snape, cold, heartless bastard, and general arsehole — had just said that he loved Harry. Harry couldn’t keep this man straight. One minute they were arguing and Harry felt so insignificant and unwanted, and the next...well. Severus was going to be the death of him!_

_But he didn’t really want to concentrate on that fact right then. He was much too enamoured with the way Severus’s lips were brushing against his own. Softly. Wetly. Lovingly. As though Harry were the most precious piece of glass and Severus was trying to keep him from breaking apart into thousands of shards. Harry rather felt that this moment could shatter if they weren’t careful, and spared a thought to be grateful for the gentle sensations. One of Severus’s hands left Harry’s face, but that was all right. He compensated for the loss of contact by leaning more carefully into his lover, and Harry experienced the feather-light and intensely pleasurable feeling of Severus’s hair brushing softly against his cheek instead._

_Harry groaned lightly as the older man’s tongue finally swept across the seam of his lips, just barely tasting. He thought he may have uttered a ‘please’ against the lips so close to his own, because next thing he knew, Severus’s tongue was caressing his own in a deep and gentle kiss. Harry’s head spun from all of the feelings coursing through him. His heart was swelling with every passing moment, it seemed, and though his eyes were closed, he could feel tears pooling there. Relief coursed through him in droves, that he was not the only one who felt this way; that Severus did care for him beyond his body. Hope bloomed in Harry’s chest at the prospect that maybe, just maybe, they could get through this bloody war together. And by god, the man could kiss! Harry’s heart was fluttering just thinking about it as it happened._

_And suddenly, Harry felt a new awareness from the admittedly great sensation of Severus’s mouth against his. Severus was taking his left hand in his own. Even though he had done it countless times before, there was something different about this time, something different about the feel of Severus’s fingers...no, just the one finger. Harry wanted to pull back to see for himself what had changed, but Severus’s other hand, the one still on his face, directed Harry’s mouth to stay where it was and Harry gladly complied, despite his curiosity._

_“Slide your hand against mine,” Severus breathed, breaking away from Harry only briefly before delving back in for another breathtaking kiss._

_Harry’s brows furrowed, still curious, but intent only on the way in which Severus’s mouth was plundering his own. He distractedly did as asked, noting that something was sliding down Severus’s finger. Instinct took over and he caught the thing before it could fall to the ground. He held it in his palm, but it did not quite register yet what the object was as he brought the hand holding it to curl around Severus’s neck. His fingers played with the object, memorizing the heavy feel of it and then the shape. Strange, but it felt like a ring..._

_Instantly, Harry stopped kissing his lover, but allowed Severus’s lips to continue brushing oh so carefully against his own. And Severus_ was _being careful._ Too _careful. Almost as though he was trying to soften a blow that was inevitably aimed for his head. Almost as though he was frightened. And then it all made sense._

_With a gasp, Harry broke away from the older man, clutching at his neck and back almost desperately. He finally noticed that Severus was hanging onto him in much the same manner, as though afraid that Harry was going to leap out of his arms._

_“Oh,” Harry sighed breathlessly, trying to keep his voice under control._

_He felt like he could burst at any moment, his joy was so profound._

_“Oh, Severus. Please...please tell me that this is what I think it is.”_

_Despite the severity of the moment, Severus’s lips twitched in an attempt at humour, but quickly went back to the straight — if slightly kiss-swollen — lines they had been. He stared into Harry’s face, into Harry’s eyes, looking as though he was searching for all of the answers to life’s secrets in that gaze._

_“What do you think it means?” he asked quietly, voice so soft and timid._

_Harry had never heard such a thing from this man. It was that tone, ultimately, that decided him. If Severus — good, brave, courageous Severus — could not bring himself to say the words, then Harry would just have to say them for him._

_“Is this an engagement ring?” Harry whispered, looking into blank, inscrutable black eyes._

_A pause. Too long. Harry was beginning to think he’d misinterpreted the signs, that he was going to be ridiculed and laughed at, that he was —_

_A nod. Small and barely there. But a form of assent. Severus had just asked Harry to marry him. Well, not in so many words, of course, but who really needed to hear those anyway?_

_Harry looked away, down between their bodies, as he brought his free hand around to play with the buttons on Severus’s shirt-front. It was not meant to inflame, or tease, or any of the like. He wanted to hide the shit-eating grin that had stolen across his features. He couldn’t let Severus see what an idiot he had become in the space of a minute. Once he felt like he was in control of his emotions again, Harry grabbed for Severus’s own hand and brought it up to his lips. He placed a reverent kiss to the slightly bony knuckles and looked up again into Severus’s face._

_“Well,” he murmured, bending to place another unhurried kiss to his lover’s hand._

_He kept his tone light and airy as he continued:_

_“I suppose I’ll have to say yes, then. If that’s all right with you.”_

_Harry spared a moment to drop Severus’s hand and then slid what he could now see was Severus’s family ring onto his left ring finger. The room was so deathly silent and Severus so still that Harry wasn’t quite sure what to do or say. He looked up into his lover’s face, his brow furrowing in apprehension at the completely blank facade Severus was displaying. And then a shift._

_With a shouted ‘Yes!’ of triumph, Severus scooped Harry up into his arms. Harry, going along with him, jumped up and wrapped strong thighs around his lover’s—correction, his_ fiancé’s _—waist. And then they were both laughing, Harry almost hysterically and Severus with such ecstatic joy that Harry felt like passing out from happiness_

_They made love madly, frantically that night. Every touch of skin was something new, something that they were sharing in a completely different way from before. Because now they knew. Now they knew that they would spend the rest of their lives trying to make one another happy. And to think: not an hour ago they were arguing over something as insignificant as letting their friends know about them. Unbelievable._

* * *

Harry smiled wanly, his emotions getting the better of him after retelling the story of his and Severus’s engagement. He was almost done now. And then he could say his goodbyes and put his lover to rest for the last time. He inhaled shakily, running a hand through flyaway hair.

“I loved him. Very much,” Harry told the assemblage of now silent people, his voice cracking. “And he loved me back. He always spoke of what our lives would be like after the war. He seldom allowed himself to hope, but for that, I believe he was eternally hopeful. So, as my promise to him — to that hope that he held so dear — I will fight. I will fight for the life he wanted. I will fight for the lives of those he loved. I will fight for all the broken, scared people in the world. I will fight for those people and those they hold dear. I will fight. Because he would have wanted me to. And because I owe him as much for loving me so.”

Harry had to take a break as his tears finally caught hold of him once more. He swallowed convulsively, looking at the podium as though it would give him strength.

“So it is goodbye for now. My lover, my heart, my best friend,” he choked out, looking now at the casket that held Severus’s body. It was closed, as Harry couldn’t have born seeing the dead body again. “Thank you for loving me. Thank you for saving me. But most of all, thank you for sacrificing everything for our world. I miss you. And I will _always_ love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harry :( New chapter next week, my loves!


	6. An Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks - so we earn that M rating in this chapter. I rated this fic due to torture, sexual situations and language. We hit 2/3 and there is talk of the third. You have been warned.
> 
> With that out of the way, please enjoy!

Pain. A ripping sensation in his side. Scream. Gurgling. Blood. Spittle. Red. Agony.

* * *

Pain, worse than before. Fire. Cracking. Scream. More pain. Like nails. Black.

* * *

Pain. Pain, pain, pain, pain, _pain_! A reprieve. Pain. White. Stars. The moon, pale as death, pale as the masks surrounding him on all sides.

* * *

Pain, fainter than before. Lights. Bright, flashing, multi-coloured. A lightening of the darkness before him.

* * *

He felt numb. It was hardly surprising. After all, if the signs of approaching dawn were to be believed, he had likely been tortured for the past two hours, if not more. His body was experiencing excruciating pain, and yet...he could no longer feel it. He was floating. His mind was drifting in and out of the proceedings, as if a spectator to its own slow unhinging. He tried to move away from the viciously aimed kick, even though he knew he could not avoid it. He had been reduced to instincts. It was his body’s instinct that led him to curl protectively around his middle. It was his body’s instinct to try to jerk away from the fire running through his nerves. But still his mind did not process the pain. Still, he felt numb.

He had long ago given up on screaming. He felt like the nerves there may have died. The last time his mind had allowed him to actually feel the pain, his throat had been raw and he could barely croak when the next round of Cruciatus was applied. The only thing that he allowed himself to think of, the only thing he _could_ think of at the moment, was Harry. He did not think of how sad Harry would be when he inevitably found out that Severus had been tortured to death. No, he could not think on that. Because with those thoughts came the realization that he would never be able to hold the other man in his arms again. Never be able to say those coveted and rarely-spoken — at least by Severus — three words. Never see those green eyes open lazily, but with delighted content whenever they managed to sleep in the same bed. Never kiss those lips, or feel Harry’s eager tongue against his own. Never make love to him. If the torture didn’t kill him, the regrets surely would.

All he had ever wanted, since the moment they had been engaged, was to give Harry everything he wanted and more. To give the man he loved all that he desired and the only thing Harry had wanted was to come out to their friends. Why hadn’t Severus said yes? Why hadn’t he said anything? Why hadn’t he given Harry that, at the very least? It would not have been so bad. Certainly, they would have received their fair share of criticism and scorn from those who did not understand, but they would have faced that together. And it would not have mattered if they were slandered, because they would have had each other. Now, Harry would be left to face the opposition and contempt alone. And it was for that reason, and that one alone, that Severus finally allowed the tears to come.

He had not cried when they had shattered the bones in his legs. He had not cried when they had used the Cruciatus on him until he could scream no longer. He had not even cried when they had broken his ribcage so that he had a flailing chest wound. All of this pained him physically, of course, but they would not, could not break him with pain alone. Nor could they even do it emotionally or mentally, really. It was only Harry who could do that. It had always been Harry. He finally allowed a small sob to escape his chest, curling even tighter into himself; it was a small comfort as the jeers and laughter of the Death Eaters reached his ears.

“Look at the ickle traitor now! Not so tough now he’s had a dose of what we do to scum like him, is he?” he heard Bellatrix cackle gleefully.

He didn’t know how, or why, but this above all else was what broke him out of his reverie of thinking about Harry. The anger licked at his wounds, at his insides, and he forced himself to unfurl from his foetal position.

“You will _never_ break me Bella. That cannot be done by you or any spell you can think up,” he managed to croak.

He saw the surprise on her features clear as day, as though his mind had come back for just a moment. A moment in which all thought became clear, as he gazed at her in challenge. He was flat on his back, looking her dead in the face, goading her on to whatever she and the others could cook up. Because they could not, would not break him with their pain. He would only succumb when his mind was too undisciplined to keep him away from thoughts of Harry. He would only give in to the darkness when he could no longer stand the heartbreak of thinking about leaving Harry behind. As the next round of Cruciatus began, Severus felt it more strongly than ever because of his brief clarity of mind.

Pain. With this, he was familiar. Severus smiled a red smile, and let the pain take him away.

* * *

Soon enough, his mind was drifting in and out, lulling him to a gentle passing while his body suffered the trauma. He thought he could hear screaming, someone other than himself, but he chalked that up to his damaged mind and tried to keep his thoughts light and inconsequential. Thoughts of how his students would react made him smirk in his mind’s eye. He had long ago lost all control over his own bodily functions. The stench surrounding him confirmed that.

* * *

Screaming. Not his own, no. He could tell only because the fire in his throat was not licking at him so fiercely any longer. No, he had not been able to make himself scream in a while. It was too much effort now. He was too tired. Too tired. He imagined that since his physical body was no longer able to produce the sound, his mind had conjured a lovely tactile version just for his own amusement. Numb calm, as the screams continued in his head.

* * *

Panic. Sudden, fierce, and painful. The screams. Whose were they? Could they be his? Or had something else happened? Where had he left Harry again?

Pain, flooding his senses as his eyes flew open. He felt his body jerk hard from the Cruciatus Curse, something he felt it had not done in a long time. He could not remember, however. The physical pain stopped as more senses assailed him. He could hear the Death Eaters now, their voices muddled still, but the fact that he could physically hear again was something new. Strange, but the screams he had been hearing for the past little while were still going, even though he could sense that his own vocal chords were not capable of those particular sounds and his own torture had been halted for the moment.

Panic. Harry. How else would they have known of his betrayal? They must have found out. Oh _god_ , Harry. _Harry, I’m sorry_.

Panic, even stronger than before. What if the person screaming _was_ Harry? What if they had captured him too, somehow? Severus tried to recall where he had left the blasted brat, but he could not. Every time he got close, the thoughts slipped away, like water slipping through his fingers. He was jarred most unkindly out of his thoughts by a harsh slap to his face.

“...dead yet?”

“Nah...”

“...Lord...keep going?”

“...still alive...Lord.”

“What...he saying?”

“ _Quiet_!”

The hissing voice cut through the continued chatter and Severus’s muddled thoughts more effectively than anything else had.

Panic, fading, weaker than before. No. They could not have Harry. He was certain of it. The screams had stopped now too, and Severus had convinced himself that he had made them up, that they were a figment of his dying brain. But —

Severus summoned what he felt was Herculean effort to turn his head the small distance he did in order to better see his former master. The snake-faced wizard was slowly rising from his conjured throne and approaching the traitor within his ranks. Severus tried to see around him, but it was impossible. He caught a glimpse of something behind the throne, of more people there, but it was so brief that he dismissed it as fiction before the thought could form. But he had bigger problems now. Severus rolled his eyes up to look at the Dark Lord, and his brow furrowed very slightly. He could see the advancing man’s expression now; it was not one of contempt, as Severus expected, but one of curiosity. This struck him as rather odd, considering the circumstances. _Focus_ , Severus. He is talking to you.

“...that, Severus?”

Severus allowed his own confusion to show through, as he could not make himself form words. The Dark Lord knelt beside his head, crouching low over his form and cocking his ear towards his former servant. Severus’s mind was blank now. This was so unexpected, he could not believe it was happening. He blinked his eyes hard, then screwed them up again when a sharp slap hit him in the face once again.

“What were you _saying_ , Severus? Answer me!”

A scream, much clearer than before. Panic flooded Severus’s thoughts again. He gurgled as he tried to shout, tried to make more sounds than whispers. Oh god, _Harry_. No. _No_ , they could not. Severus would not allow it. Harry. Harry, no! The scream that he had heard was choked off quite abruptly. Severus heard someone laugh, “Finally! He _was_ a loud one!” Severus felt his heart break in two as the laughter and cheers erupted from the other side of the clearing. _Harry, no_...

Severus could not contain his hopeless sobs now. He was convinced that Harry was on the other side of that wall of bodies, convinced that he had lost the only person he had ever loved. His anguish was plain to see to those surrounding him, and that only served to make them even more celebratory it seemed. That is, until Voldemort silenced them all with a hissed threat. Severus continued to sob breathlessly, unheeding and uncaring of the words now pouring out of his mouth. Blindly, he reached for the ring dangling from his neck, the one he constantly kept on his person at all times. It did not matter now. Harry was gone, and Severus would be joining him soon.

His numb fingers fumbled for the precious piece of jewellery, still struggling to speak in clearer tones. The Dark Lord’s continued confusion was evident as Severus looked into the red eyes he hated so. Those eyes were responsible for the death of the one person he had ever loved with his entire heart. That monstrous face, which was bending nearer to him now, was the reason Harry and he would never get the chance to live a normal, peaceful life together. Now, the claw-like fingers were reaching for his chest, brushing away Severus’s weakened hand carelessly. Severus’s outrage grew and he attempted to swing his arm up in retaliation. No! He could _not_ have that! It was Severus’s, given to him by Harry a little over nine months ago.

“Give it here, Severus,” Voldemort tisked, as if to a fussy babe.

And just like that, he tore the chain holding the ring to Severus’s chest, bringing it up to serpent-like eyes for observation. Severus could tell the moment his former master realized what the ring was — or rather, whose it was. Incredulous red eyes moved from the ring to Severus’s face, even as the former spy snarled weakly at him to give it back. Severus was aware of the Legilimency only at the very last moment, but was unable to parry the Dark Lord’s superior — not to mention, intact — mind.

“Oh, but this _is_ perfect,” Voldemort hissed with laughter after he had pulled away from the Potions Master’s memories.

The Death Eaters surrounding them shifted uneasily, wondering what was so perfect, but not daring to say anything. The Dark Lord was notorious for using the Cruciatus Curse on his servants for any perceived impertinence.

“Severus, you’ve been _quite_ the naughty boy, haven’t you? I wonder...does Dumbledore know you’ve been fucking his golden boy? Or should I say toy — after all, that is how you treat him, isn’t it?”

Voldemort issued another laugh, this time even more malicious. Severus spat as well as he could to convey his displeasure with the assumption. The Death Eaters were completely silent and still now, as if they could not, or would not, believe that their former brother — in addition to the capital offence of spying — was screwing Harry Potter.

“I bet he simply _gags_ for it, doesn’t he Severus? Is that why you keep the boy around in that farce of a relationship? Does he beg you to fuck his sweet, tight arse? Or is it because he sucks your cock like a Knockturn whore?”

Severus somehow found the energy to snarl, absolute loathing in his expression. How dare he talk about Harry like that!

“Mmm, I can picture it, Severus. Harry Potter on his knees, hands bound and mouth prised open to receive your cock. Your cum spraying all over his dirty Half-Blood face. Do you make him lick it up, Severus? Or do you prefer the evidence of your conquest?”

Now, the Death Eaters did laugh, despite their continued disbelief.

“Or perhaps it is _you_ who is the one on the receiving end? Tell me, Severus: do you take the golden boy’s cock up your arse? Are you the one begging for him to fuck you, to punish you for your sins? Do you let him cover you with his filthy spunk, or do you swallow it like a good boy?”

More laughter as Severus felt tears coming to his eyes. Voldemort was dirtying his relationship with Harry. What Harry and he had together was beautiful. It was tender, it was sweet. Severus could never abide any violence or degradation in a sexual relationship, having experienced too much of both in his double life. What was more, he _loved_ Harry! He could never do those things to him. An all-consuming anger, now. With the very last of his strength, he lashed out at the Dark Lord with his fist. Since the dark wizard was still crouching by his torso, it was easy to strike him across his face. The crunch of broken bone resounded in the clearing before Severus experienced the intense pain of the Cruciatus. It reeked of Bellatrix’s curse.

When he was finally released, his screams and sobs dying down again, he opened aching eyes to see the Dark Lord standing over him with a bloodied nose. His expression was thunderous and Severus felt that his end was very near now. Good riddance. He could abide by the torture, but the taunts were something he could no longer endure.

“That was very foolish of you, Severus,” Voldemort murmured. “Very foolish, indeed. Do you have any last words, traitor?”

“F... _fuck_...y-you,” Severus strained to say.

“Very well, then.”

In the infinitesimal moment before the Dark Lord raised his wand, Severus allowed his thoughts to stray to his fiancé. He could see Harry now, clear and bright and happy. He was running away from Severus, down a beachfront. Harry turned, laughing, egging Severus on to chase the younger man. And Severus gave chase...

With a final flash of light, Severus knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort really earns his meanness from the story summary. Poor Severus. Contrary to some of my readers' beliefs, I don't enjoy torturing him and Harry...much (:


	7. A Grieving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello there! Glad to see you're still with me :) As usual, I own nothing; I just like to put these lovely characters into different situations than JKR & WB.
> 
> The song lyrics within this chapter are from a band called Delta Spirit; the song is "Salt in the Wound" and is really quite beautiful.
> 
> With that out of the way, read on!

_I want to disappear, Far from the folks I know._

* * *

**June**

It had been three weeks since...well. Harry had thrown himself into his work, despite multiple assurances from Ron, Kingsley (their boss), and even the Minister for Magic himself that his job could and would wait as long as he needed. Harry had scoffed at them and just worked harder. After all, there was still a war going on, despite...the event. Harry had taken to calling it that in his head. He couldn’t do his job if he was distracted and the event was distracting in the extreme. And Harry had promised to fight. So fight he did.

He threw himself at every sighting of Death Eaters the Auror office received with abandon and recklessness. Kingsley had assigned Harry and Ron as partners for the time being, in order for Ron to look after him. Harry resented them both rather strongly for it. He didn’t need a babysitter, he just needed to win this war. Didn’t they understand that the prophecy spoke of Harry? Didn’t they get that he was to be responsible for killing Voldemort in the end? Harry didn’t think they did. And they weren’t the only ones.

Order meetings had become decidedly awkward. Albus liked to schedule them randomly so that it was less easy to track their movements on the other side, and since the loss of their spy, meetings had been more frequent. They’d had three meetings in as many weeks. Efforts were being made to infiltrate the Dark Lord’s ranks again, but without the Order’s main stead, it was proving nearly impossible. No one wanted to go near the Order for fear of what had happened to the previous spy. Harry had also taken to thinking of the man only as ‘the Order’s spy’; anything else was far too distracting.

In fact, any time the dreaded name was mentioned at meetings, Harry would abruptly and rudely leave the room to fetch another bottle of wine from the cellar, loudly proclaiming that they were out and that he could use another glass. Needless to say, Harry usually drank himself into a stupor at meetings, to the concern of all. He rolled his eyes whenever they expressed any type of worry for him, and tended to leave Grimmauld Place whenever they tried to bring up what had happened.

Sometimes, Harry wished that he could just up and leave, but then he thought of the war. He often fantasized about what he could do if only they’d let him. If it were up to him, he would just call Voldemort out for the coward he was, draw him out into the open, and then kill the bastard. Simple and effective, and then he could be done and over with this life. He could tell everyone to fuck off and go live somewhere far away, and live out the rest of his days in peace. No people bothering him, no Voldemort to contend with, and absolutely no mention of the event or the people involved. That would be fucking perfect, if anyone were to ask him. Which they didn’t, naturally.

Harry sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose and rubbing at his aching eyes. Why was he here again? He didn’t know, sometimes.

* * *

_Why am I here?_

_Oh what should I do?_

_Well is this the point I’m trying to prove?_

* * *

**July**

It all came to a head about two months later. Harry had been increasingly desperate to avoid his friends’ concern for him. Ron and Hermione had offered for him to live with them, but he had pointedly declined. Molly and Arthur had asked him multiple times to dinner, so that he had taken to eating with them nearly four nights of the week; and every time it was the same.

“Oh, Harry dear, take some leftovers along for your lunch...I’ll feel much better if you take something along...you’re looking far too thin, dear...”

And on it went. Even Albus had patronizingly suggested that he come and spend some time at Hogwarts. He was sick of people treating him like glass. He was fine! He was working, and living, and coping! He was eating, and breathing, and sleeping! Well, in a manner of speaking...but what more did they want from him? _He_ was still alive. He wasn’t the...the dead one.

His dreams had taken to haunting him at night. Every night, it was the same: Harry would walk into the Ministry of Magic atrium and part the crowd, gazing upon the dreaded scene all over again. It was the only time he allowed himself to cry nowadays. No one was there to witness his breaking and he was all right with that, as long as it kept people off his back. However, it wasn’t working! People were still bothering him, shooting him concerned looks, walking on eggshells around him. He couldn’t stand it anymore! His anger boiled steadily, something that he could not control after continuous weeks of coddling from his colleagues.

Harry was attending another Order meeting on another desolate night in July — unnaturally cold for this time of year and rain pounding on the windows of Grimmauld Place. Harry ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick up at even more odd angles. He was barely listening to Moody’s report on the goings-on of the upper echelons of Death Eater society as it was. He kept staring at the windows, which were so sodden by the water that the vision to the outside world was blurry at best. He only tuned back into the conversation when he heard his name crop up in conversation.

“...and Potter over there is too busy mooning over Snape to give us his proper concentration, is he?” Moody barked.

Harry went from restless but relatively calm to still with rage in the span of seconds. He gripped his wand, which had sprung out of its holster at a mere thought from him, and stood up to confront the older wizard sitting nearly across the table from him.

“ _What_ did you say?” Harry asked.

It was not in a tone that was familiar to his voice. It was soft, calculated, controlled; much closer to that of Voldemort or of his...of Severus. He allowed himself to think the name at last, as it only served to fuel his cold anger. No one dared to move, let alone breathe. They hadn’t seen Harry this upset in a while. Albus especially decided it was best to let the scenario play out for the moment. Of course, he regretted it with the next words out of Alastor’s mouth.

“You heard me, Potter. Ever since Snape was killed, you’ve been moping about, no concentration, no discipline, no regard for your superiors. So you’ve lost your lover. I’m sure there are plenty of young men out there who can scratch the itch, Potter, so hop to it!”

For a moment, Harry stood there, actually stunned speechless at the callous words from someone he respected. Sure, he knew that Moody could be a little rough around the edges, but he had _never_ thought the man could be so stupid. The next moment, he started to laugh, high and hysterical, his wand hand lowering to rest on the table to support him. He never stopped gazing at the retired Auror to see if he maintained his serious expression. Unluckily for Moody, he did not smile at Harry’s mirth.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Is that what you all th-think?” Harry hiccoughed, still laughing a bit. “That Severus was just some...just some _fuck_ for me? Wham-bam, thank you sir? You’re a great shag, we should do this again sometime?”

No one said anything and Alastor watched him carefully. Harry didn’t know what the hell Alastor was waiting for. He thankfully hadn’t said any more hurtful things, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to calm down. And then the dam broke.

“You going to do anything with that wand, Potter?” Moody uttered, a low growl of challenge to his words.

Harry wouldn’t remember snapping, wouldn’t remember the curses they exchanged, or even how long the duel lasted. All he could think of was the inferno of fury coursing through him. All he could see was the red haze. He had no concern for the other people in the room. All he wanted was to make Alastor feel some of the pain he felt on a consistent basis. Because if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t been numb at all. Numb on the outside for certain. But never on the inside.

Harry’s insides were a tangle of emotions. Fear. Pain. Loss. Anger. Heartbreak. Injustice. All of them swirled within him at any given moment. He realized that the anger had steadily been creeping up on him for the last month. That he was a time-bomb just waiting for a reason to go off. And Alastor had provided a clean outlet for him to vent some of his frustration and anguish.

“Come on, Potter! Kingsley taught you better than that, _I_ taught you better!” Moody bellowed, even as he parried the curses coming his way.

With an almighty roar, Harry threw spells at breakneck speed. His wand was a blur, his thoughts all gone, his emotions churning on the outside now too. All was bared now. He was holding nothing back. When he finally won the battle, it was quick. Alastor went barrelling into the fireplace behind him and it was only through the quick work of Tonks and Kingsley that he did not crack his head on the hearth.

Now that the fight was over, now that Alastor’s wand was rolling away from him under the table, Harry realized what had happened. His head was clearer than it had been in weeks. The anger had sharpened his focus to a single deadly point. What if he’d lost the tenuous control he had over himself somewhere else? What if he lost it — Merlin forbid — on the job, when he had to be at his best, when he had other lives to consider than his own?

“There’s the fight in you,” Alastor murmured as he slowly rose to his feet. Harry looked at him, confused and still mightily upset. “There’s the fire in you. Glad to see it’s still there, Potter.”

And with no more than a ‘by your leave’, Alastor stumped out of the room. Harry looked after him, noticing at once that the rest of the room was silent, still. Harry looked around him, at Tonks, Kingsley, and Ron especially. His co-workers, his friends. How could he have been so irresponsible?

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, to the consternation of many present. He thought he heard Minerva McGonagall mutter something about ‘being ridiculous’. “No, I am. I’ve been putting everyone in an unnecessary amount of danger.” He paused again, his eyes downcast. “I’ll be taking that break, Kingsley...if you wouldn’t mind.”

And then Harry left, before he could cause any more trouble. Before he could convince himself that he was wrong and that he _needed_ to be at work. Before he could ruin someone else’s life by taking their loved one away before their time. He felt tears track silently down his face as he left the little house with a snap of the door.

* * *

_No one here can tell me_

_What’s been haunting me all my life._

_Well this rat race has left me limping_

_‘Cause I balanced on the edge of the knife_

* * *

**August**

Harry was done with his anger now, for the most part. Done with his desperate need to prove himself. He was so very tired. The nightmares had changed now, too. As though his anger had kept them at bay, there were worse images coming to mind now. And Harry really hadn’t thought they could be any worse than finding Severus’s dead body. Oh, how wrong he had been. What was it Dumbledore had said — there were worse things than death. Now Harry knew without a doubt how right Dumbledore had been.

Harry was kept company by a litany of nightmares. The first night he dreamt something different to Severus’s body, he was almost relieved. He now knew that he could and would dream of other things eventually. But once the images began to play out in his mind, he realized what a fool he had been to wish for something different to pollute his mind. The scene had started out innocently enough. It was of Severus walking through the forest. Harry initially believed it was the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, but it turned out to be somewhere else entirely. Severus walked for a minute and then turned abruptly to the right, holding out his arm. Harry would later note after having watched the scene a couple of times that it was the left arm — the one bearing the Dark Mark.

And then the torture would begin. Severus was surrounded by his enemies, Voldemort sitting in a throne and watching as his most faithful tormented and harassed their traitor. Harry watched as they used the Cruciatus on him to no end, watched Severus claw at the ground. Trying to escape the sensations, trying to bear it stoically. He did admirably until they began throwing other curses in to complement the pain. First, they used a cutting curse to slice Severus’s side from nipple to hip. It made Severus scream for the first time. Harry always winced and tried to cover his ears at this point. It made no difference for him to yell obscenities and cry and scream along with Severus. Nothing ever made a difference. The nerves were so primed by the Cruciatus Curse that it was a wonder Severus was able to stay conscious. But he did. He was so brave, so determined not to let them get the best of him. Harry sometimes shouted at him to stop resisting, show them how much pain he was in, just to make them stop. Because of course they would make it worse if he didn’t show them any of his pain, or of his fear.

Whenever Harry tried to wake himself up, to end his own torment, he found that he could not. Something was not letting up on him, was not allowing him to spare himself from the utter agony of watching his lover die slowly in front of him. Because Harry was oh so confident that death was the end goal of this hell. The dream was so vivid and so clear. So unlike anything he used to dream of before Severus had died. Why Harry couldn’t have normal dreams anymore, he could not fathom. It was as if the grief was pushing his subconscious to new heights. Terrifying heights.

When Harry finally did wake up, to the image of Severus’s mangled body still playing in his mind’s eye, he usually wretched. He sobbed and pleaded for these dreams to stop. He begged for them to be not true. The only comfort Harry gleaned from these dreams was that the body that had come back to him had been whole and undamaged. No rip in Severus’s side, which the Death Eaters had taken innumerable pleasure in pouring acidic potions into. No broken leg, which had been delivered by a pulverising hex. No unbearable marks from some sort of hex Harry had never heard of. The Severus in his dreams always blacked out after that. Then they woke him up and started with more Cruciatus and more unknown curses. The dream always culminated with Voldemort pointing his wand at Severus’s form on the ground. Harry never saw the final blow. Mercifully, he always awoke before that happened.

That dream had been his friend for at least three weeks. Then his subconscious had seen fit to provide him with many more images to feed his slowly-encroaching insanity.

All of the dreams were the same in that they happened not in the forest, but in a dungeon. However, that is where the similarities ended. First, there were visions of Severus alone, huddled up against a wall. Harry didn’t so much mind these dreams, as they didn’t show Severus being hurt in any way; but that didn’t usually last very long. First, there was only Voldemort allowed to enter the dungeon cell. These dreams seemed the most confusing, the least clear. Harry could tell that Voldemort was talking to the Severus in his dreams, but he could not tell what was being said. He was too focused on watching his now dead fiancé.

The current dreams Harry was having were by far the worst. Various Death Eaters would begin tormenting Severus, first with words, and then with more curses. Harry could not bear to look away from Severus, whose face was usually contorted with pain. What made it worse was Severus’s broken voice calling Harry’s name. Harry generally woke up in a cold sweat from these dreams, babbling and crying.

He would give _anything_ for these dreams to stop, for his waking life to be the nightmare...to have Severus back. He would give his very life just to have one more hour with his fiancé, to tell him it was all right if it was just the two of them, that no one else needed to know. That was all Severus had wanted: his privacy, to not be hounded by their friends...or, more likely, Harry’s friends. Severus hadn’t thought they would understand, didn’t think that they would be happy so long as Harry was happy. Harry just wanted to be able to tell him that he loved him and would take him any way he could get him. Why had he made such a big deal out of needing to tell their friends? Why had he pushed Severus? Was he the cause of Severus’s lapse in judgment concerning Voldemort? Was he the reason that Severus was dead? These questions, more than anything else in his lonely life, haunted him the most.

* * *

_Chains, are they really there?_

_Is this just in my head?_

_Well I’ll just stay in bed_

* * *

**September**

Most days Harry spent sitting at his kitchen table, staring listlessly at either the table, the fridge (where pictures of him and various of his friends were pinned), or when he was feeling particularly morose, the wall. Why the wall? Before Severus’s death, Harry had enchanted that small section of wall to hide his secrets. Only he could see through the warded wall to the framed picture hanging there. It was the only picture they had ever taken together in their true forms, as just Harry and just Severus. No need to hide behind glamours or pretend to be someone else for that infinitesimal amount of time.

The picture had been taken with a Muggle digital camera, so it did not move. Harry had regretted it at the time, but now that his lover had died, he preferred that the figures captured in that moment were not moving. He could not have kept the picture with Severus’s then-peaceful face and living, breathing, alive body if it had been a moving picture. It would have been too painful. They had been lying in bed on that perfect weekend nine months ago, when Severus had proposed to Harry. It had been in the wee hours of the morning, when no one else had dared to be awake, including his fiancé. Severus had been asleep on his side, facing Harry and breathing the slow, deep breaths of those who dreamed.

Just before Harry had reached into the bedside cabinet to retrieve the camera, Severus had been disturbed by something in his dreams. His face had twitched and he had uttered a low sound of distress before Harry had hushed him, lightly running his fingers down the other man’s face and then leaning in to press a kiss to the furrowed brow. Severus had quieted almost immediately, and Harry had spared one last touch to his lover’s grooved forehead to smooth out the worry lines before carefully rolling to get the camera. Upon turning the device on and positioning his finger on the correct button, Harry had then stretched his arm above their figures. He had spared a brief moment to smile at the look of contentment on his lover’s face and then leaned in to place a light kiss upon those thin lips.

Harry stared at the frame, revealed for everyone to see now that there was no more secret to be kept. The picture was awkwardly taken, as some of his arm showed at the side of the frame. He hadn’t particularly cared so long as the most important part of the picture was perfect: that of the decadently handsome man lying next to him. Harry took in the details now, not just of his fiancé but also of the smaller things he’d failed to really notice before. They were naked, naturally, fallen asleep after a fierce round of lovemaking. The chocolate brown sheets were up around their stomachs, covers kicked to the end of the bed and consequently not in the shot. Severus’s left hand was resting possessively on Harry’s waist, long fingers curled so that they rested nearly on Harry’s buttocks. Harry’s left hand, the one not holding the camera, was lightly holding Severus’s face still as he pressed a chaste kiss to those fine lips.

Looking at the photo always brought tears to Harry’s eyes. Hermione, Ron, Molly, Arthur, and Albus had all come in at some point to Harry’s broken sobbing after he had gazed too long at the unremarkable picture. Hermione had once threatened to destroy it if he was going to keep crying at it; he had recently made an effort to make sure she was not the one who found him at his lowest point. He understood why she acted the way she did around him, and in some ways he appreciated it. At least she wasn’t walking on eggshells around him like the others did, or coddling him, or offering him inane platitudes.

After these sessions of uncontrollable depression, Harry usually retired to his bedroom to lay down and hug Severus’s pillow. Albus had collected one of them from Hogwarts (unbeknownst to Hermione, of course; Harry didn’t want to think what she would do if she found out) and Harry had taken to sleeping with his arms wrapped around it. It was at once intensely comforting and dreadfully sadistic. Some days, Harry wouldn’t even leave his bed. On those days, one of his friends would come and roust him from his self-imposed solitude to force him to eat something. He couldn’t stand their looks of pity when they found him like that.

Harry reflected that the only good thing to come out of being so monumentally crippled emotionally was the numbing to dreams. He had not had a tormenting nightmare of his lover in weeks. Harry guessed it had something to do with his brain being too stunted to process anything so complex as a dream. He shrugged and lay back down to sleep, burying his nose in the Severus-scented pillow.

* * *

_All the tears I cried never salted any wound_

_Well the earth is so tender and cruel_

_Well if you’re not there it’s still so beautiful_

* * *

**October**

It was his first day back at work after his two-month hiatus. He was finally back to some sense of normalcy. His anger and sadness were pushed into the background on most days; on the seldom day, he could manage his emotions well enough that he seemed almost normal. His colleagues and friends alike were overjoyed to have him back to some functioning level. Hermione in particular had been pleased as punch when he mentioned going back to work. Harry knew that without her guiding him (at times gently, and other times, not so much), he may not have retained his sanity.

At the morning meeting, Harry accepted the ‘welcome back’s’, handshakes, and numerous smiles around him with stoic dignity. He even managed to smile back at some of his better-known colleagues. Kingsley did not make any more fuss than usual, except to welcome him back with a warm smile and an assignment worthy of his station. This was something Harry could sink his teeth into, this was the type of assignment that he had not had in the weeks following Severus’s death. Kingsley understood him better than anyone it seemed. It was sink or swim; that was always the way he had played it.

Harry threw himself into his work, dedicated and controlled, precisely the type of Auror the department had wanted when they hired him. The weeks seemed to fly by. Harry was rewarded with a commendation from the Minister for saving the lives of five civilians and two of his colleagues from a brigade of rogue Death Eaters. He was finally moving on.

He thought of Severus all the time, but it was usually to dream up the kind of invective he would spew should Harry fail at his various assignments. Needless to say, Harry’s creativity had him smiling quite a bit during the most trying of times. It unnerved some of his friends, but mostly, they were just happy that he _was_ smiling again. Harry thought he was coping, thought he was doing all right, that he was learning to deal with the constant open wound where his heart used to be.

And of course, as in all things, that is when the nightmares started again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted in 7 days. See you then!


	8. A Parallel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Here's a new chapter for you, featuring another favourite character of mine. Hope you enjoy!

He woke with a start, his teeth chattering and his breath fogging the air. Cursing, he grappled for his wand to cast a heating charm before remembering the cardinal rule. He took a savage pleasure in mimicking the Dark Lord’s voice in his own head — lest his father wake — saying ‘No magic is to be used...none at all...you must not be found by Shacklebolt and his Aurors’. It was the same message every time they moved safe houses. You’d think he’d have more creativity as a Dark Lord. Then again, this was the wizard who could invent no greater way to kill Harry Potter than setting up traps every few months that would no sooner fool a three-year-old.

Flinging the covers away, he padded silently over to the fireplace and used the poker to try to prod more flames from the detritus. Seeing that wasn’t going to work, he sighed angrily and threw more wood into the pile, making quite the racket — damn his father!

“Good morning to you too.” Silence except for the sounds and curses of a Pureblood trying to start a fire without magic. “Oh do stop your snit, Draco. It is _most_ unbecoming of a Pureblood of your station, not to mention a Malfoy.”

Draco silently plotted how to kill his father and escape this hellhole of a life without getting murdered quite cheerfully by the Dark Lord.

Right. Good luck with that.

* * *

Harry woke with a start, teeth clenched from the images that had been dogging him nightly. Images of Severus chained in a dungeon, beaten, tortured, and starved. Cursing, he reached for his wand to wave the lights up. He managed to knock his wand from the bedside table in his efforts.

“Excellent Harry, you’ve managed to disarm yourself. Such a fine Auror I’ve taught you to be,” Harry imitated Kingsley’s dull tone.

After locating his wand and turning on his lights, he discovered it was no more than four in the morning. Groaning, he flopped back onto his bed, not even bothering to wave the lights off again. There was no point really. He’d just end up with more nightmares of his dead lover. The worst part was that he knew that his mind was tormenting him for a particular reason. One of the Aurors on his team had been taken hostage by the Death Eaters only last week. It did not matter that Harry had been on another assignment entirely. It did not matter that he could have done nothing to prevent the young woman’s capture. Harry still felt responsible, and he knew that his mind was connecting both her capture and his lover’s death...honestly, he sometimes thought his brain did these things just to spite him.

Damn the Dark Lord and his terrible timing. Another plot, another failure to capture and kill Harry Potter. Harry hadn’t even been on the scene! Honestly, you’d think for a Dark Lord he would have more creativity.

Right. Fat chance, Harry.

* * *

“You look like shit.”

“Gee, thanks _mate_.”

Harry was in no mood for it today. He had a pounding headache, he hadn’t slept properly in days, and they were getting nowhere with locating the Death Eater stronghold. Ron was getting on his already shot nerves, which was never a good thing; especially when they were on duty together for the next twelve hours. Ron seemed to rethink his flippant remark, as there was a rather sheepish grin on his face. Harry wanted to punch him. How anyone could be so cheerful at six in the morning, he really didn’t know.

“Still having nightmares, then?” Ron asked, his expression sombre now.

Harry nodded. There was no point in hiding it. He could barely keep his eyes open near the end of his shifts and his reaction times were slower than ever. Ron had had to cover for him when he’d nearly dropped his wand the other day. They’d been rotated in for a day of doing spell drills with the first year recruits. Every Auror had to take over at some point every month in the training of their up-and-comers. Kingsley said it built cohesion and trust amongst everyone; it was essential in their line of work. Harry privately thought it was only to torture the more experienced Aurors, to keep them on their toes, but wisely kept that to himself.

“Well, this should cheer you up at least. We got a call in about Death Eaters in North Yorkshire not five minutes ago. Somewhere on the coast, near Whitby.”

“What kind of call?” Harry asked, straightening his collar and making sure his wand was placed properly in its holster.

“Dunno. Some bloke owled to say he thinks he saw Draco Malfoy skulking about,” Ron replied with a smirk.

Harry’s heart started doing double time. They’d been looking for the big players for months, if not years, and the Malfoys were as big as it got. Both Lucius and Draco had been on the run from the Ministry for at least six years, jumping from safe house to safe house and hiding with old mates to evade capture. Narcissa Malfoy, having no Dark Mark, remained at Malfoy manor. If the Ministry could just prove she was as involved with Voldemort as her husband and son, they might have caught the whole family by now. But there hadn’t been a break on them in at least a year. Now things had changed.

“How good is our source?”

“Dunno. S’anonymous. We’ll just have to wait and see.” A pause. “Want me to call in Kingsley and the Hit Wizards? Could mean a big haul if our source is right.”

Harry thought about it for a moment.

“No. If Malfoy really _is_ there, I don’t want him to make us too soon. If too many of us show up at once, we’ll scare him and his mates off. Let’s do some investigating on our own, shall we?”

Ron grinned.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

“You look like shit.”

A scathing eyebrow raised in retort as Draco Malfoy walked into their latest hidey-hole.

“Well, it’s true,” Vincent Crabbe muttered, hunching his shoulders against the chill in the room.

Draco was in no mood for it today. He had a pounding headache, he hadn’t slept properly in days, and he was getting really tired of this hide-and-seek game with the Aurors. Crabbe and Goyle were getting on his already shot nerves, which was never a good thing; especially when they were on guard duty for the next twelve hours. Crabbe seemed to rethink his flippant remark, as he busied himself with stoking the fire. Draco wanted to punch him — how positively _Muggle_. How anyone could be so alert at this unholy hour, he really didn’t know.

“Still not sleeping well, Draco?” Goyle queried, a little braver but no less stupid for questioning Draco.

“No Goyle, I just like the way I look with droopy eyes and a pasty complexion. It does wonders for me.”

Goyle muttered something uncomplimentary. Draco couldn’t bring himself to care. A few moments passed in uneasy silence. Then, a break in the monotony that was his life.

“Why don’t we go on a short patrol? You look like you could use some fresh air,” Crabbe suggested.

Draco grinned, an expression rarely seen on his fine features lately.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Draco swore quietly to himself as he bundled up against the chill coming off the sea. He wondered why he’d agreed to go to yet another safe house with no magical heating to speak of. He was sick of living like a common Muggle. He was better than this! He had been raised to believe that by his father. His father, who seemed quite content to continue sullying the Malfoy name and to drag them through the mud and silt that being a known Death Eater provided.

Draco hadn’t known the pleasure of a woman’s touch for over a year now. He hadn’t been in a proper bed for six months. He was tired of this dreary existence. He wished the war would just end already, so he could find a nice bird with a big pair of tits on a hot beach and never come back to cold, wet England again.

He scoffed again, looking around himself; Crabbe was taking a piss behind a small cluster of trees. He knew because they were using a spell that ensured they were only visible to one another. It made patrols that much easier.

He went back to his daydream, trying to stay alert. Fat chance of it ever happening. Potter hadn’t been able to find them yet and Draco knew he’d been searching. Particularly after the stunt the Dark Lord had pulled nearly six months ago with Potter’s lover – the traitorous spy. Draco _almost_ envied Severus Snape for his courage. Almost. Then he thought of his former teacher’s fate and shuddered. Nope.

* * *

Harry wrapped his cloak more securely around himself and cursed rather loudly. He hadn’t been prepared for the wind whipping in from the nearby cliffs and if Malfoy really was here, he’d have alarms set for any use of magic that did not match his own signature. Harry had the sudden urge to turn back and call it a day. The tip was anonymous and they received them all the time. He could be putting his time to better use, checking out solid leads for other slippery Death Eaters. But Kingsley was convinced they needed to chase down every lead, even the unorthodox ones. Who was Harry to argue?

Harry hadn’t seen a Death Eater in over a month. He hadn’t had the pleasure of interrogating one for at least eight months. The bastards always chose death by firing squad instead of coming in quietly. He was getting restless with this constant ebb and flow of information, of feeling useless versus trusting Kingsley’s chosen course of action. He frequently wished that the war would end so he could go to a small island in the middle of the ocean where no one knew his name and he could be by himself. Or with some cute local, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet. Or ever.

He scoffed again, looking around for Ron; his partner was skulking around a copse of lone trees. They were visible only to each other, a handy spell that had been invented recently and made patrol work easy.

He returned briefly to his fantasy of leaving it all behind after the war, but he couldn’t really ever see it happening. The Dark Lord had been evasive lately, knowing that Harry wanted it over, that it would soon be time for another large confrontation; that something had to break sooner or later. He sometimes envied the Death Eaters on the run, who had no real responsibility except to hide. Then he realized what he was thinking and shook his head. Mental.

* * *

Crabbe felt the relief of his full bladder emptying and closed his eyes to enjoy one of the simpler pleasures in life. Draco needed to relax a little and take in more of these things. That was why he’d suggested patrol, to take Draco’s mind off his situation. He was trying to be a good friend.

It was this last thought that would haunt him for a while. As he was finishing up, he toppled to the ground, completely dazed.

* * *

Ron felt himself perk up at being outside, enjoying the rush of a new task, of something to do other than sit around the office looking at stack upon stack of paperwork. Harry needed some sort of calming effect and he was never calmer than when they were out of the office doing what they were meant to be doing. Ron just wanted to be a good friend and distract Harry from his grief.

It was this last thought that would cheer Ron for a while. For at that very moment, he heard a noise of something trickling against a nearby tree and a sigh of relief. While there was no one visible, Ron grinned all the same and threw a stunner.

* * *

Harry and Draco saw the flash of red at the same time and Draco was quick to realize what had happened; but so was Harry, the now fully trained Auror. He whipped his head around, away from Ron and the supposedly felled enemy. There were _always_ two on patrol, same with the Aurors. Harry was just starting to think he should go check on Ron, that their quarry had slipped away when he saw it; just a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, couldn’t be sure about any sort of accuracy, so he aimed two quick net launching charms in that area and grit his teeth in triumph when he heard a loud, undignified “oomph!”

Before he shouted to Ron, before the unseen adversary could get his bearings and loose himself, Harry cast a few quick body binds and another net launching spell around where he could somewhat see the form through its spells of invisibility. The person wasn’t going anywhere if Harry could help it. With another sharp wave of his wand as he approached, Harry disabled the magic that was hiding his foe and couldn’t help the wide smile that spread across his face. He also couldn’t believe their luck.

“Hello, Draco. Long time, no see. How’s life on the run treating you?”

A growl was his only answer. Harry laughed.


End file.
